


Old Gods, New Tricks

by BootsnBlossoms, Kryptaria



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Post-Skyfall, Romance, minor gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-11 18:08:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/pseuds/BootsnBlossoms, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As MI6's senior quartermaster, Q is accustomed to dealing with all manner of oddities. But an agent who won't stay dead, a bomb in his office, and bad tea all combine to make for a stressful day. The muggers on the way home only make matters worse.</p><p>And that's before the owl shows up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [homosociallyyours](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosociallyyours/gifts).



> Happy birthday, dear!
> 
> And thanks to our review team, jennybel75 and stephrc79, for their beta work. As always, we couldn't do it without you guys.
> 
> ~~~ Note for readers ~~~  
> Notifications of updates aren't being delivered in a timely manner. Boots and I post all chapter updates and new fics to our Tumblrs:
> 
> bootsnblossoms.tumblr.com and kryptaria.tumblr.com
> 
> Follow us over there, so you don't miss a chapter. :)

**Monday, 14 January 2013**

“Q.”

“You’re back,” Q observed, heart giving a startled thump in his chest as the dead man walked into his office. He still wore his overcoat, shoulders dusted with melting snow. “Are you — You were reported dead —”

“Again,” Bond interrupted, swinging the heavy metal briefcase up onto the workstation where Q stood near the wall monitor. “Tell me you can open that for me, and I’ll go out and try harder this time.”

“I would rather you not,” Q said, pushing aside his keyboard and mouse to look closely at the briefcase. “I do hope you haven’t been tossing this about like that since you retrieved it. These are most often trapped with explosives.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure? Explosives make everything more exciting.” Bond’s most charming grin flashed to life as he leaned against the side of the workstation. The standing-height desk shifted in protest under his weight; it was built to withstand gentle use, not a solidly muscled, thoroughly lazy secret agent.

“Explosives will damage my laptop, and I’ll be very... cross... Hello? What’s this?” Q asked, seeing a little gleam in one of the two locking catches. He put out his hand and gestured to the table pushed up against the wall. It was a plastic folding table that had been a temporary stopgap measure three months ago, after Silva’s attack on MI6 had driven them underground. Unfortunately, as happened so often, ‘temporary’ became permanent through sheer inertia.

“You can’t just wiggle your fingers and expect me to read your mind. And I think it’s a bit soon in our relationship to be holding hands at work, don’t you?”

Heat flooded Q’s cheeks. He snapped, “The torch, 007. And save your flirtation for Ms Moneypenny. I know better.”

“That’s what they always say.” The desk creaked as Bond stepped away from it, only to creak again when he returned, dangling the torch in front of Q’s face.

Q huffed and reached for it, only to have Bond snatch it away, lightning-fast. “Really, 007? I’m not about to wrestle you for a bloody light. There’s a magnifying lamp in the explosives lab that will work just as well, and won’t destroy fifty thousand quid worth of computers if this briefcase of yours actually triggers a device.”

Bond’s laugh was the sort of low, charming sound that slipped over Q’s skin like a physical touch. Damn him. He offered the torch again and this time allowed Q to snatch it away. “You’re too tense.”

“And you’re reckless and insolent.” Q directed the light into the latch and nodded. This time, his heart sped up for an entirely different reason. “Well, that complicates things a bit.”

“What is it?” Bond asked, the humour gone from his voice. When he rose from his casual slouch, he did so much more slowly.

“That’s definitely the trigger for a trap. I think I’d very much like to evacuate the office now,” Q said slowly.

He didn’t move, though. He was no stranger to explosives and other lethal countermeasures, but he’d never been three inches away from _someone else’s_ handiwork. With no idea what else was hidden away behind the latch plate, he was paralysed. A mercury switch in the housing, which would detect if the briefcase was laid on its side, could arm the trap. Even the shift of air pressure caused by his movement could trigger it. Or it could have already been triggered by Bond’s rough, casual handling. There could be just seconds left on the countdown.

“Right,” Bond murmured, and extracted the torch from Q’s rock-steady grip. He put his hand on Q’s shoulder. The touch was grounding and reassuring — very much so, because if either of them saved the day in _this_ situation, it would be Q, not Bond. But just having Bond beside him made him feel better, and he was able to straighten up and start backing away from the briefcase.

After taking four steps, he turned, thinking to go to the office door and suggest his on-duty team evacuate, but he turned too quickly. Lightheaded, he caught at Bond’s sleeve, only to have an impossibly strong, solid arm wrap around his waist.

“Steady,” Bond said, his voice perfectly calm and controlled.

Q nodded. “I would very much like to know how you managed to not get yourself killed transporting that briefcase from —” He hesitated, glancing at Bond. “Where did you get it?”

“Paris.”

“You brought that _all the way from Paris_?” Q stepped out to the top of the staircase leading to his office. “How are you not dead, 007?”

Bond grinned, cocky and confident and far too charming for anyone’s good. “I told you, Quartermaster. My specialty is resurrection.”

Q shuddered. “I believe you,” he said, a bit awed at the man’s insanity and luck. Then he turned and looked down at his senior technicians, raising his voice as he said, “If you’d all please secure your workstations and head for safety, we’ve a bit of an explosives problem in my office. And I’ll need the bomb defusing robot, please.”

 

~~~

 

Q was sitting in the canteen, staring down at the sludge at the bottom of a muck-coloured paper cup. There was probably half a sip’s worth of tea, not even enough to dissolve the sugar that had settled, since he didn’t have a proper spoon for stirring. Naturally the bomb scare had come thirty minutes after the restaurant on the fourth floor closed, so he was without a spoon.

Then a familiar floral scent teased at his nose, and he looked up just in time to see a large cup — also paper, but thick and protected by a cardboard sleeve bearing the logo of the cafe down the street. “Oh, thank god,” he breathed, shoving his cup aside to claim the offered new one. Only when his hands were wrapped around warm cardboard did he look up further and meet bright blue eyes.

“It looked like a medical emergency,” Bond said, taking the seat across from Q. Not that Q was about to object. For a decent cup of tea, the agent was welcome to every bloody seat in the cafeteria. “Sorry about your office. Was anything damaged?”

“Against all odds, no. Rockwell and Reed are disassembling the device in the proper lab.” Q pried off the plastic lid and inhaled deeply. Bond had even removed the bags after letting the tea steep, rather than leaving them in to turn bitter. He was the most wonderful, perfect, brilliant agent at all of MI6 — an opinion that would last at least as long as the extra-large cup of tea.

“And you’re not at your desk?” Bond asked. He turned his chair slightly and slouched. His legs brushed against Q’s before he put his feet up on the chair next to Q. “I thought you lived there.”

“The robot’s treads tore up some of the flooring.”

Bond let out a cough that was suspiciously like a laugh. “I accidentally brought a bomb into your office, and all you’ve managed to do was damage the flooring? I’m disappointed, Q.”

“Not all of us count the cost of rebuilding towards our successes.” Q took a sip of the tea, and his eyes fell closed at the perfect bite of black tea leaves softened by bergamot, milk, and sugar. “This is _exactly_ what I needed. How did you know?”

“I pay attention.” Bond crossed his other leg on top of the first and slouched down a bit more, grinning fiercely. “It’s in the job description, if you recall.”

“Mmm. Speaking of your job,” Q said, opening his eyes to look Bond over, “how _did_ you manage to not die? Your plane went down. I watched it on satellite.”

“I’m _very_ good. I told you once before, I specialise in resurrection.”

Q looked across the table, wondering what it was that drove Bond to such impossible successes. Age and injury and simple weariness should have dragged him into retirement by now, if not the grave, and yet of all the agents in the Double O programme, Bond _always_ returned. Perhaps he wasn’t always successful — no one was — but he had a knack for surviving.

“I believe it,” he said softly.

Bond’s grin seemed to make the years fall away. “Enjoy your tea,” he said, and pushed upright again.

A bit surprised, he looked up at Bond. “Thank you.”

“Sorry about your floor.” Bond’s grin turned sly, and a new light came to his cool blue eyes. “You’ll have to show me the quality of the repairs.”

Unsurprised by the blatant innuendo, Q answered, “If by which you mean you want me to show off my perfect form in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, wherein you’ll end up face-down on said floor, I’d be happy to.”

To his distinct pleasure, instead of taking offence or storming off in a snit, Bond laughed. “Challenge accepted, Quartermaster,” he said, giving Q a nod before he left the canteen, still laughing.

 

~~~

 

It was well past nine before Q found a parking spot almost at the corner, a bit of a hike from his building. Really, he needed to move to a flat with reserved parking — preferably somewhere with security — but he hadn’t had the chance to do more than sort out a few estate agents based on review websites. Every time he tried to schedule viewings, some new crisis called him away, and it was rude to continually reschedule.

Wrapped up against the thick, wet snow, Q locked up his car and hurried back up the street, thinking of nothing more than soup, a cup of tea, and sleep. In the winter, he moved his bed close to the heater; his blankets were perpetually warm, and right now, he wanted nothing more than to nest under layers and sleep.

He should have been paying more attention. He was MI6 — he was an _executive_ at MI6, and he’d gone through all the security briefings. Pay attention to your surroundings. Vary your routine. Always carry a weapon. Have your keys out. But he was cold and wet and tired, and by the first sign of danger, it was too late.

There were two of them, naturally, because his luck was that way. One stepped out ahead of him, and when he heard a noise at his back, he turned and saw the other. They were both larger than him and probably armed, though thankfully neither one had actually drawn a weapon yet.

For a moment, he actually considered running or even charging at one of them, shouting madly. He’d read somewhere that a good shock would often chase away someone looking for easy prey. The problem, of course, was that he’d probably end up slipping on a patch of snow and falling on his arse, making himself even easier prey — not to mention colder and wetter.

The one in front took two steps towards Q. And there it was, the bright silver flash of a blade, the sight of which made Q want very much to keep his skin intact and his blood where it belonged. He took an involuntary step back, and rough laughter sounded behind him.

“You don’t —” was as far as he got with his warning, though, because _something_ was suddenly in the face of the man in front. The sound was like sheets whipping in the wind, and everything was a blur of darkness through the rain and snow spotting Q’s glasses.

Then the indignant shouts — _Get it off me!_ — turned to screams and then shrieks of gut-wrenching, nauseating pain. The other man ran past Q, knocking him aside, and then let out a scream of his own, and Q saw blood spray from the tawny blur that was batting and tearing at both their faces.

 _Feathers_ , Q realised in a daze. It was a _bird_. A great big bloody _bird_ was attacking two muggers.

Which meant that this wasn’t real, because this _didn’t happen_. He backed away, wishing he could see clearly enough to know what kind of bird had accidentally rescued him, but the darkness and weather combined to disorient him.

Finally he fled, because whatever anomalous condition the bird was suffering wouldn’t last. Soon it would realise that it was attacking humans, not mice or fish or whatever it was that birds ate, and then it would fly off, and the men would stupidly decide that Q had somehow been responsible for the avian mauling.

He made it to his building and managed to fumble the key into the lock only because he’d done it exhausted, freezing, sick, and drunk. Being panicked was nothing new, either — not in this neighbourhood. He ignored the foyer mailbox and ran up the stairs two at a time, not stopping until he was two storeys up and well out of sight of ground level.

Then he climbed the remaining level on shaky legs, thinking that this was all too surreal. It had to be some sort of uni prank. Right now, someone was uploading a video of his panicked flight to YouTube. The bird was a remote control device on a string or balloon suspended out of range of the street lamp.

By the time he let himself into his flat, he was laughing at himself — and privately promising himself revenge. There was enough CCTV coverage that he’d be able to isolate images of his attackers. He locked the door, thinking he’d have no trouble at all running them through facial recognition.

He smiled at the thought that maybe Bond could go around and have a chat with them. He seemed very keen to make a good impression on Q, after the ‘almost blowing up the office’ incident. This would go a long way towards soothing Q’s ire, though the well-timed cup of tea earlier had definitely helped. Feeling much more sanguine about the whole incident, Q hung his coat to dry, set his messenger bag on the foyer table, and went right to the kitchen to turn on the kettle.

As he opened the cupboard, he heard a rattling sound, and he eyed the kettle suspiciously. He picked it up, thinking it might be empty, but there was plenty of water in it. It wasn’t rattling because it was boiling, either. With a little grimace, he opened the lid to verify that there were no dead mice in there — something which had unfortunately happened in uni, but that was to be expected with people sneaking food about.

Then he heard it again, and realised it wasn’t in the kitchen at all, but the little living room. Startled, thinking that the wind might have blown hard enough to dislodge one of the windows from the frame, he set down the kettle and started that way.

The snow shifted, suddenly revealing a pale shape, moving and fluttering, filling the window with wings and feathers and night-black eyes. Q let out a startled shout and backed away. His hip banged painfully into the fridge.

 _Killer bird_ , he thought madly, wondering if it hadn’t been sated by attacking the muggers and now felt the need to come after him.

Its wings flared, and it deliberately — _deliberately!_ — rapped its beak against the window glass.

Q flinched back, mind full of thoughts of glass breakage and window frame strength and the relative hardness of beaks.

The bird gave a little hop and cocked its head, a very sideways sort of tilt that made Q realise he was looking at an _owl_.

In London.

In the snow.

An owl that had just attacked two muggers and was now knocking at his window.

“All right,” he said, a slow-burning fury overcoming his apprehension. He looked around, trying to spot the hidden cameras that someone must have installed. “Very amusing. Hogwarts? _Really_?” he shouted, wondering which of his oh-so-clever subordinates was going to have to die, slowly and painfully, for this sort of prank.

He crossed the living room and wrenched open the window, thinking that the owl was probably a valuable pet. Besides, this wasn’t the owl’s fault. No sense in having it freeze to death.

Definitely a valuable pet. It hopped inside, spread its wings, and glided to the back of the sofa without hesitation, even though Q had heard something about large birds not liking being kept indoors. Q slammed the window and looked for the cameras again. “If you tell me its name is Hedwig, I’ll fire the lot of you and hire an entire new department from the intern pool,” he threatened.

But of course there was no answer. Where was the fun in ending a prank before it had been beaten to death? Sighing, Q turned to look at the owl, wondering if he should offer it water, when he realised its talons — its very long, wickedly curved talons — were bloody. And not neatly bloody. The blood splattered up onto the pale cream feathers covering the upper parts of its legs and belly. There was more blood spotting its heart-shaped face.

Q took a step back, banged into his computer desk, made it around, and sat. He stared at the owl, which folded itself in half and started gnawing at its bloody feathers.

What the _fuck_ was he supposed to do now? Was this part of the prank? Fake blood? Ketchup? If so, he swore that heads would roll.

If not, then he’d just locked himself into a small one-bedroom flat with something that had just mauled two men in a matter of seconds.

Quietly, so as not to disturb the deadly thing, Q touched the mouse, waking his computer. He typed in his login information, fingers gentle on the keyboard, and opened a browser with a few quick clicks.

Then he let out a mad sort of laugh, because really, what was he supposed to type? _What do I do if an owl attacks two muggers and is now sitting on my sofa?_

Finally, he decided to start simple. _Owl_ seemed a logical first search.

 

~~~

 

Three mugs of tea later, Q was _certain_ that this was not normal owl behaviour.

‘This’ was now an owl sitting on his coffee table, occasionally ducking its beak into a pot of water and splashing its head around before it resumed meticulously grooming — _preening_ , actually — its feathers. As if it were having a bath. After saving Q from two muggers.

It certainly wasn’t a hidden camera prank. He’d swept the flat twice. He would defy 007 himself to slip a single surveillance device past that sort of search, and then only if it was a device Q himself had designed.

“This isn’t _normal_ ,” he told the owl. He peered past his monitor and picked up his half-finished tea. “You. This is not normal. You’re supposed to be out hunting mice and living in barns. It’s _what you are_.”

The owl twisted its head a fraction of an inch one way, then the other, before switching legs in what appeared to be an anticipatory movement. Q braced himself, and indeed, the owl started flapping its wings to give it enough lift to sail across the room toward him. Startled, Q flinched, chair creaking in protest as he leaned back all the way. But instead of swooping in to claw at Q’s face, it landed on the top edge of his computer screen, the great span of its wings causing enough of a stir in the air to send errant sticky notes and other papers flying off the desk.

“Not there!” he shouted, thinking of what an _owl_ could do to his poor flatscreen. He would’ve batted at the owl, but its talons were even bigger close-up and he didn’t want to provoke an attack.

The owl tipped its head, and if Q were the type to assign human characteristics to animals, he would have _sworn_ the owl looked chastising. Perhaps stranger yet, the owl ruffled itself and hopped down, off the screen, and onto his desk where it sat, staring at him.

Q stared back, vaguely recalling some sort of theory that breaking eye contact was done only by prey. Or was it that _maintaining_ eye contact was an act of aggression? Why the hell wasn’t he wearing sunglasses?

“Right,” he finally said, because he felt the need to say something. He actually wanted his tea, but it was within wing-reach of the owl. Instead of picking up the cup, he repeated, “Right,” again.

Then a thought occurred to him. A valuable pet like this would be banded, which was the bird equivalent of microchipping. He set his feet firmly on the carpet and slowly pushed his chair back as he slouched down. “It would have to be on your feet. Let’s see them. There’d be an owner’s name or an ID number of some sort. National Owl Registry Database or the like, wouldn’t there?”

In an incredible imitation of Q’s movements, the owl ducked its head as well, moving when Q did, stopping when Q did as well.

“That’s unnecessary,” Q said, before he could stop himself. He huffed at his own idiocy — apparently it was a theme for the night. The owl was probably just mimicking his behaviour. Animals did that sort of thing.

But that implied, at least to his fuzzy logic, that the owl was accustomed to human interaction. Very, very carefully, he lifted his left hand, thinking that if he was going to be injured or mauled, better to preserve his dominant right hand. He reached out, ready to pull his hand back at the first sign of aggression.

“Nice, er, owl,” he said, striving for a soothing tone, though it came out more puzzled than anything else. Surely the owl wouldn’t know if he said ‘nice kitty’ as he almost had, simply out of habit. The last person he’d dated had lived with three cats, and he’d developed certain habits.

The owl twisted its head to watch the approach of Q’s hand, and shuffled its feathers lightly every few seconds, but otherwise held still. When his hand was within a few inches of the raptor’s body, it stretched its neck slowly and nipped at Q’s fingertips. It was a very slow, very gentle movement that didn’t hurt in the slightest — in fact, it felt like curved plastic pinching lightly at the nail and pad of his index finger. The raptor shivered its wings again, then pulled back and went back to watching Q.

“Right. Lovely. I do hope that doesn’t mean you’re hungry and want fingers, because you can bloody well get them yourself, if you do.” But assuming that they’d come to some sort of truce, Q went the long way around his desk, opposite where the owl was still lurking. Owl or not, he wanted his soup.

“What do you eat, other than mice and muggers?” he called back. He had the ridiculous urge to simply leave the pantry open and let the owl knock its beak against whatever tin it wanted Q to open and reheat.

In a scattering of pencils, papers, and whatever else was light enough to be dislodged by the owl’s lift, the bird pushed itself off the desk, flapped up towards the flat’s ceiling, then swooped across the room in a long, graceful movement that was incredibly beautiful. It tipped its wings to deviate from its straight path, and landed on the counter next to Q, skidding slightly on the surface.

Q managed not to flinch quite so badly this time. “Lovely. You’re hungry,” he assumed, voice strained from how his nerves had been tested through the whole night. “You do realise I have pot noodles and beans, don’t you? I haven’t had the chance to go grocery shopping for weeks.” He eyed the owl’s hooked beak and immediately decided soup wouldn’t do. As it was, the owl had made a mess of the coffee table with its impromptu bath.

He opened the pantry, took out a tin of soup for himself, then turned back and asked the owl, “Beans, toast, or both? My god, I’m actually expecting an answer.” He closed his eyes, wondering if he’d cracked under the stress of his promotion. Probably.

The owl turned its head again in a manner Q thought of as chastising. It looked from the tin to Q and to the tin again. It sideways-hopped towards him, sharp claws inches from Q’s arm.

Q picked up the tin. Chicken noodle soup.

“You _cannot_ read this,” Q said, eyeing the owl suspiciously. He set the tin down and sorted through the others in the pantry. He obviously had no ‘mouse stew’, so chicken was probably the best the owl would get. He found a tin of potato soup and set it down beside the first tin. “There. Let’s see you pick out the chicken now,” he challenged.

The raptor leaned back as it flapped its wings in great beats of air, the tip of the right wing hitting the potato soup tin. It tipped over and rolled across the counter slowly, finally falling off the edge and hurtling towards Q’s toes.

With a startled, “Oi!” Q leaped back to safety. He picked up the tin, and his irritation suddenly vanished as he realised the owl had done as he’d asked.

Suspicion turned to something else — something that might well have been enthusiasm, if he hadn’t been so bloody cold and hungry and stressed. Ridiculous as it was, he picked up the tin of chicken soup and went to open it.

“If you get this all over my carpet —” he began, before he realised he couldn’t exactly threaten to make the owl clean it up. “Right. Heated up or room temperature?” he asked instead, wondering how exactly to get the soup out of the tin and into the owl.

He actually waited for a moment, as though expecting an answer. Then he shook his head and turned away from the owl on his countertop — _the owl on his countertop_ , he thought madly — to find a couple of saucepans.

 

~~~

 

The owl, as it turned out, was less interested in the soup and more interested in picking out the chicken, which worked much better once Q layered towels over the damp coffee table. In fact, it seemed content to nibble for some time, though eventually it stopped eating and started mantling its wings as though waving to get Q’s attention.

Q had given up on such mundane concepts as reality and sanity. He put down his own soup and walked around his computer desk to the coffee table. The way the owl watched him was disconcerting and very... self-aware.

“This would be much easier if you could speak,” he pointed out, looking into the saucepan in which he’d served the chicken soup, thinking the aluminium pot was more likely to withstand owl-based abuse than his dishes were.

The owl blinked at him, then let out an ear-splitting screech that lasted for about five seconds, sounding like a cross between a hiss and the sound a dying animal might make. It sent Q stumbling back, convinced the bloody bird was ready to attack now that it had eaten a little snack. He hit the computer desk, splashed tea out of his mug, and nearly toppled his monitor.

_“Fuck!”_

The raptor ruffled its feathers and turned its head from side to side in what, all together, looked suspiciously like amusement. It swooped from the coffee table back to the computer desk, landing again on the top of the monitor.

Q flinched away from its wings — really, that wingspan was _excessive_ for a house-trained bird — and rushed to stabilise the monitor under the owl’s weight. And that thought reminded him... “If you could avoid, uh... leaving any messes... Can birds even be house-trained?”

The owl shuffled its feathers again, but didn’t do much more than stare at Q from its apparently comfortable perch on top of the LCD.

“Must you?” Q asked somewhat plaintively. He couldn’t resist touching its feathers. They were stiffer than they looked. “You have to belong to someone. You’re clearly not wild. Are you microchipped?” he mused, wondering how he could mod something to pick up an RFID signal from a chip.

Not that it mattered. What he _actually_ had to do was call the RSPCA to have someone pick up the owl. House-trained or not, the owl wasn’t _his_ , after all. He might have done damage to its digestive system by feeding it chicken soup, for all he knew.

He sighed and walked around his desk, keeping a wary eye on the monitor. He sat down and wrinkled his nose at the idea of finishing his lukewarm potato soup. Pushing the bowl aside, he pulled up Google to search for the phone number for the RSPCA.

The owl stayed still at the monitor, watching, until Q actually reached to pick up his phone from where it lay on the desk. Then the raptor hopped down off the monitor to swoop towards his hand, talons out. But instead of clawing Q’s hands, it scooped up the phone and carried it over to the window, where the bird flapped in place for a moment. Then it turned away and flew up to the top of Q’s bookshelf, where it landed. And stayed.

Q stared at the owl. The _thieving_ owl.

“That,” he said threateningly, “is a secure MI6 mobile, and you’re not leaving this flat with it.”

Then an idea occurred to him, and a tiny smile tugged at his lips as he quickly typed, sending himself a text. The mobile was in a drop-proof case; at worst, the screen might crack, and he had spares at the office.

A moment later, the mobile vibrated, and the bird hopped on top of it but didn’t try to send it crashing to the floor in fear. The bird turned its now-familiar chastising look at Q again, then — leaving the mobile on top of the bookshelf — flew back at the window. It scored its talons along the glass, causing a high-pitched squeal that was accompanied by the owl’s own screech. Then it flew back to the bookshelf and stared at Q again.

“Absolutely not!” Q protested before he could stop himself. “You’re not going out there in this weather. You’ll freeze. Besides, you belong to someone...” He trailed off, looking up at the owl. “Oh. Did you run away? Er, fly away?” he asked more gently. He got up and walked to the bookshelf, holding out his hand a bit less tentatively.

The owl dove off the bookshelf, but didn’t fly right to Q’s hand. It flew to Q’s sofa, then returned seconds later with the blanket Q kept on the back of the couch in its talons. It dropped the blanket to Q then circled the room.

The poor thing probably wanted a rest. Q gathered up the blanket, bundling it in his arms, and held up the makeshift nest for the owl. “All right. Here, uh...” He tried to think of anything creative beyond ‘Hedwig’, which felt awkward; he didn’t even know if the owl was female, nor was he willing to check.

The owl swooped in towards the blanket, but didn’t land in it. Rather, it tore the blanket out of Q’s hands and circled the room again. When it came back, it dropped the blanket over Q’s head and shoulder. He let out a startled shout, but before he could reach up to pull it off, the owl was so close to him that he could feel the tips of its feathers on his face.

Moments later, it was comfortably settled on his shoulder, sharp talons digging into the blanket but barely scoring Q’s own skin through his dress shirt. It was heavier than Q imagined — it was, after all, a flying creature — and he had a momentary vision of losing his balance, almost dropping the owl, and it tearing his shoulder apart in an effort to keep from falling.

“You’re far too clever — Oh, _bloody hell_ , did you escape from _Baskerville_?” he asked, trying to look at the owl without actually _looking_ , because that sharp hooked beak was very close to his eyes, and his glasses offered no protection at all. “Are you from a lab? God, this is that movie, _The Rats of NIMH_ , isn’t it? That or I’ve gone completely mad.”

The bird leaned over to nip at Q’s ear with the same light, gentle pressure it had used on Q’s fingertip earlier. Its body weight shifted as it moved, talons gripping to keep it balanced, but it didn’t fall or tear up Q’s skin. In fact, it seemed quite comfortable.

It was rather nice, actually. By necessity, Q lived a busy, solitary life. He’d always wanted a pet, but between his parents and school and his ambition to join MI6, he’d never had the time. Even his house plants died of neglect.

Carefully, holding up a hand in case the owl needed stabilising, he walked back to the computer desk. “I’m just checking my email, so don’t go stealing my mouse,” he warned. He sat down cautiously, though the owl seemed able to anticipate his moves and shifts in balance. It rocked forward and back to stay upright, and then ruffled its feathers up as Q settled down in his chair.

He gave the owl a cautious pat on the softer feathers over its chest, and then opened his personal email. The owl seemed to settle comfortably, the only movement its occasional shifting with Q’s movements and its body as it breathed. It didn’t chirp or hoot, but stayed completely silent.

Q moused with one hand and kept petting the owl with the other, relaxing under its weight. His flat was usually so _empty_ in the evenings, which was why he worked late and on weekends. This... this _companionship_ was definitely very, very nice.


	2. Chapter 2

**Tuesday, 15 January 2013**

Something was buzzing right beside Q’s ear, on his pillow. He opened his eyes to the familiar, slightly blurry sight of his bedside table, and the _unfamiliar_ sight of a great, immense owl sitting on it, and he gave a very undignified yelp and recoiled instinctively before the memories of last night came crashing back.

“Oh, fuck, you’re real,” he said dazedly, looking around the bedroom. It all seemed perfectly normal, except for the giant barn owl whose tail feathers were threatening to knock over the lamp.

The raptor stopped moving for a minute, twisting its head to stare at Q. Then it hopped from the table onto the bed, close to Q’s still-blanketed knee, and turned to look at the noise that was still coming from the pillow.

The insistent buzzing proved to be his mobile, which... wasn’t possible. His mobile was on top of the bookcase in the living room — had been, ever since the thieving owl had put it up there to keep him from calling the RSPCA.

“Did you...” he began, staring at the owl. Had the owl brought him the mobile as a trophy, the way a cat presented its human with mice and birds? Or... “Did you _know_ this is my wake-up alarm?”

Comically, the owl hopped a few paces to land heavily on Q’s knee. In a move that was eerily like a scene from _The Exorcist_ , it turned its head nearly a hundred and eighty degrees to stare at Q before it turned back to look at the window next to Q’s bed. It hopped a few more inches and stopped, staring at the window, apparently waiting.

The disappointment that crashed through Q was nearly a physical sensation. Last night had seemed full of possibility. With his promotion to Quartermaster had come a substantial rise in pay. He could get a house, somewhere with a yard and high ceilings for the owl to fly. Now, though, in the wet grey dawn, he realised there was no way he could keep a pet owl, even if it didn’t belong to someone.

“You want to go home?” he asked, a bit choked up. He coughed and told himself that he was just getting a cold. Avoiding looking at the owl, he sat up and unlatched the window. When he pushed it open, he shivered at the icy January wind.

The owl stared at the open window for a moment, then back at Q. It turned back, hopping back onto Q’s knee before it flew back up to Q’s shoulder. Without a blanket between its claws and Q’s bare shoulder, the talons scored into his skin, not hard enough to bleed, but hard enough to hurt. It nipped at Q’s ear again, then settled, talons shifting with its body weight. Q couldn’t resist petting it one last time. Finally, several long seconds and one last ear-nip later, it hopped off Q’s shoulder and towards the window.

He resisted the urge to tell it to come back if it needed a refuge or got lonely. It was an _owl_ , no matter how clever it seemed to be. But he did quietly say, “Goodbye.”

The owl hopped on the ledge, looked back at Q, screeched, and dove from the ledge. Q leaned out into the rain and watched as the owl plummeted before its wings snapped out. It caught the air and flapped gracefully upwards, heading towards the clouds and who knew where.

The sense of loss was profound, and Q sat there for long minutes, searching the sky for any sign of the owl, before he closed the window against the chill. He had to get to work.

 

~~~

 

All morning, Q felt out of sorts. He oversaw two of his technicians running 0015 and 003 through two tricky operations — a night-time infiltration and a bank robbery, of all things — and had a conference call with a tech startup trying to bid for a government contract, but none of it held his interest. He kept thinking about the comforting weight of an owl on his shoulder, the rough feathers of its wings and soft feathers over its breast, the way it had nipped at him affectionately.

Morosely, he ate lunch at his desk and drank too much tea and ended up spending almost two hours reading up on barn owls. Apparently his was an unusually large specimen and most likely male, since he hadn’t seen any spots on its feathers.

Good thing he hadn’t called it Hedwig after all.

“You look like you’re in a dire place right now,” came a familiar voice from the doorway. “Do you need me to kill someone for you?”

Q looked up to see Bond lurking there. He managed a faint, professional smile, wondering if today’s appearance would be accompanied by tea, explosives, or both. “Sorry, 007. No updated intel for you, but we don’t anticipate results for several days. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a bit longer.”

Bond leaned against the doorway, his body using a subtle shift of muscles that Q could see under his expertly-fitted grey and blue suit to settle carefully in place. “What’s wrong? That doesn’t look like a ‘my encryption program didn’t work’ sort of a frown.”

“Nothing.” Q tried to brighten his smile a bit, though he guessed he fell short, judging by Bond’s raised eyebrow. “Did you need something? Or are you part of the betting pool on the bank robbery? The one management isn’t supposed to know about...”

“You know what you look like you need?” Bond interrupted, straightening a little. “Billiards in a dingy bar with live music and pub food guaranteed to give you chest hair.”

“That’s a revolting image,” Q lied, laughing. A night out sounded like fun, but... “Unfortunately, I may be expecting” — _something_ , he thought, and had to suppress another laugh — “someone tonight.”

Bond took a few steps in Q’s office, seemingly unconcerned with the brush-off. “Tomorrow, then. Unless your... someone” — Bond raised his eyebrow again — “doesn’t show up tonight. In which case, you have my mobile number.”

Q would wait all night for the owl — _his owl_ — but he smiled all the same and said, “That sounds lovely.” The memory of yesterday’s tea was fresh in his mind, and as odd and abrasive Bond could occasionally be, he definitely had his charms. More to the point, he was intelligent and very good at his job. There was no reason not to pursue a friendship.

“I’ll drive. Tomorrow, after work. Jack’s is one of the least seedy pubs down by the docks, and frankly the ale leaves a lot to be desired, but the steak and mushroom pie is fantastic.”

“God, I still have to buy a decent car,” Q said absently, remembering that part of his to-do list. “Sorry. Yes. Tomorrow. It gives me an excuse to leave work on time for once.”

Bond nodded, but instead of leaving, he finished crossing the short distance of the office and leaned against Q’s desk. “Do you really know Jiu-Jitsu?” he asked curiously.

“Only in the most theoretical sense,” Q admitted, remembering last night, and he felt an embarrassed blush creeping up the back of his neck and cheeks. He hadn’t even _considered_ self-defence, beyond running away. He probably would’ve ended up in Medical if not for his owl.

Bond chuckled, looking down at Q. “In that case, I think it’s best you let me take you to the sparring ring a few times a week to show you how to use your height and” — he grinned — “flexibility to your advantage. Otherwise I’ll never get an up-close and personal look at your floor improvements.”

Q’s pulse jumped as he looked up into sky blue eyes. His laugh was a little breathy, and a tiny corner of his mind whispered that he was a fool to say ‘no’ to the potential here, all in hopes of seeing a silly, impossible bird. “Fine, Bond. But if you do any permanent damage, Mallory will assign you desk duty,” he warned archly, though he knew his hidden grin showed in his eyes.

Bond slid his hand along the edge of the desk, inches from Q’s hand — which he seemed to be intently focused on. “Don’t worry. I’ll be particularly careful of the important bits. I wouldn’t actually hurt you, Q.” He looked up with a mischievous grin.

“I trust you,” Q said, and was a bit surprised to find it was true. But then, why wouldn’t he? Bond was erratic, demanding, disrespectful, and occasionally more irritating than all of North Korea, but he was also loyal. And he _always_ came back from his missions — without his Q Branch-issued gear, true, but the important fact was that he always found a way to survive. Q smiled and found the courage to brush his fingertips over the back of Bond’s hand. “Tomorrow night.”

Bond nodded with satisfaction, then straightened. “Good luck with your friend,” he said with a smile. Then he turned and strolled casually back out the door.

And despite the uncertainty about his owl, Q spent the rest of the day with a little smile. Even if tonight was a disappointment, he was certain that tomorrow wouldn’t be.

 

~~~

 

This time, Q left work at a decent hour and made one stop on the way home. By seven, he was in his flat, shivering from the cold wind coming through the open window, wondering just how ridiculous he was. He had the owl’s blanket wrapped around himself for warmth and was nibbling on pieces of takeaway chicken — the closest he could come to mice without his stomach turning — as he caught up on Doctor Who from the previous autumn. He’d watched avidly right until Silva decided to disrupt life in such a dramatic, ultimately pointless way, and he was sick of hearing spoilers about the Christmas episode.

It wasn’t until he was about halfway through his first episode that he heard the sound of wings. The curtains rustled with the disturbance of air caused by large wings, and Q heard the unmistakable sound of talons scraping along the tiny wood ledge.

He got up, throwing aside the blanket, and nearly overturned the bowl of chicken bones in his hurry to stand. He grinned when he saw his owl. “I hoped you’d come back.”

The owl let out a screech, though this time it wasn’t quite the shockingly loud, hissing scream it had let out last night. It shook its feathers slightly and let its head fall sideways towards its shoulder, watching Q.

“Come in. You must be freezing,” Q said, offering his arm a bit warily. Because of the chill, he wore layers of shirts and would be protected, though the owl’s talons were _very_ sharp. “Are you hungry? There’s fried chicken.”

The owl launched itself from the window ledge and flew across the room towards Q. It beat its huge, white wings in great sweeps as it gently settled on Q’s arm, talons digging in even through layers of material. It tried to settle, but seemed to have a difficult time finding its balance — it kept its wings partially open in an effort to keep upright.

“Easy, easy,” Q said nervously, wanting to put a hand on its back to steady it, though he didn’t quite dare. Instead, he turned and crouched down very slowly, trying not to flinch when the owl nearly batted off his glasses. “Here, sit down. Let me close the window,” he said, lowering the owl to the sofa cushions.

Instead of hopping onto the cushions, however, it flew off Q’s arm just long enough to land back on the blanket it had favored last night. It flew up over Q, and dropped it on his head again.

Q laughed and wrestled quickly out of the blanket, getting it over his shoulder so the owl could land. This time, he was braced for the weight, and he held himself still while the owl balanced. Then he gathered the blanket around himself, toga-style, and went to close the window.

“Can you eat fried chicken? I considered buying mice, but... well, there was the possibility that you wouldn’t show up, and then... well.” He couldn’t quite hide his shudder. He closed the window and blew on his cold hands to warm them as he very slowly turned around, careful not to unbalance the owl.

The owl made a hissing sound but didn’t fly off Q’s shoulder. Its talons dug in, easily piercing the blanket and shirt underneath, but the extra fabric was enough to keep the sharp claws from tearing Q’s skin. It nipped at Q’s ear again as he walked back to the sofa.

The owl stayed balanced on his shoulder as he sat. He arranged the blanket around himself — it would be another hour before the flat was properly warm — and stretched out an arm to take hold of a piece of chicken. He tore off some of the meat and offered it to the owl, asking, “Do you want a taste? Not my fingers, please.”

The owl stared speculatively at the chicken for a moment before it reached out to snatch the chicken away. It didn’t tear it into smaller pieces or snip the chicken in half with its beak, but tipped its head back to swallow it down in small, fluttering motions. When it was done, it nipped at Q’s ear again.

Grinning at the success, Q tore off a piece for himself, eyeing the owl to make certain it didn’t snatch at the chicken. He fed the next piece to the owl, and then asked, “Did you watch Doctor Who, wherever you used to live?” He leaned forward to discard the bones, dried his fingers on a serviette, and restarted the episode from the beginning.

It wasn’t long before the bird seemed to fall into a trance, either because of the television or because it was very tired. It started to flop over to the side, falling into Q’s hair, before it would catch itself and straighten again with an indignant ruffle of feathers. It started to hop from foot to foot and pluck at Q’s hair with its beak, as if the hair were personally responsible for the raptor’s apparently exhausted state.

Q laughed and nudged the owl with his head. “Here, let’s lean back,” he said, pushing the rest of the chicken a few inches back from the edge of the coffee table. He eased back, careful not to trap the owl’s feathers against the sofa, and rearranged the blanket comfortably. He set the telly remote on the cushion beside him and then reached up to gently pet the owl along one wing.

With the back of the couch and Q’s head to lean against, the bird settled more comfortably. It quit hopping and shook its feathers, seeming to lose several inches of height as it got comfortable. It let out another screech, but by now Q was used to the sound and he didn’t flinch, despite how loud it was.

“You’re very cuddly. Are owls supposed to be? I thought that was cats,” Q said absently, glancing sidelong at his strange companion. “I gave up a date for you, you know. But that’s all right. We’re going out tomorrow night, so if you come back — if you want to, that is — you’ll have to come by later.” He didn’t allow himself to think that he might not come home tomorrow night at all. Bond had a reputation, and as _interesting_ as he was, a one-night stand held little appeal for Q.

The bird hissed and nipped, this time not at Q’s ear, but at his hair. It captured a group of strands and tugged a few times before letting go. It kept its head turned, though, watching Q’s face.

“Careful,” Q warned, grinning at the owl. “Date tomorrow, remember? I’d look very odd with bald patches.” He tentatively stroked the stiff-soft feathers at the top of the owl’s head. “He wants to teach me self-defence — which, yes, I _should_ know, but I completely forgot. I’m glad you were there for me last night. That could have gone very badly for me,” he added with a little shiver.

With an obviously purposeful movement, the owl let its head flop sideways, hitting Q’s temple with a light thump. It held still, not moving except to breathe, keeping contact with Q.

Wondering if it wanted more petting, Q ran his fingers over the feathers with a bit more courage. “In case I didn’t say it last night, thank you,” he said, tipping his head just enough to brush his cheek against the owl’s head. “I don’t suppose you’d want to take my place in the sparring ring against James, though, would you?” He laughed and rubbed his face against the owl again. “You’re a much better fighter than I am. I wouldn’t stand a chance against a novice field agent, much less him. He — well, he kills people. I suppose that wouldn’t bother you. People, mice...”

After a few minutes, the owl lifted its head back up, not watching Q any more, but the television. It shifted a few times but didn’t hop off Q’s shoulder. It screeched again, and when Q actually looked at the bird, he realised it wasn’t watching Doctor Who, but looking at the bowl of chicken.

“Oops. Sorry. I’ll have to lean forward. Hang on,” Q warned, and as if the bird understood, it dug its talons into the blanket until he could feel the sharp tips against his skin. He put a hand up to steady the bird until the bowl was in reach. He snagged it with his fingertips and reclined again, setting the bowl in his lap.

He tore off a good piece of meat and offered it to the owl. “We really do need a name for you. I wish you could tell me if you have one. And if you’re male or female, though I suppose I could find something that wouldn’t matter.”

The owl snatched the chicken out of Q’s hand, easily avoiding his fingers. Apparently the chunk of meat was a little too unwieldy to simply swallow, however, and it used its talons to shred it into smaller pieces before swallowing them one by one.

“Sorry about that,” Q apologised, and tore a much smaller piece for the owl to eat. “I was reading about you, you know. Owls, that is. Apparently, owls are the guardians of the underworld. Of course, they’re also magicians’ familiars, signs of evil, signs of good fortune, and all sorts of confused rubbish. Which just proves that the internet is the cesspool of collective wisdom. So what are you? Good fortune for me, I’d say.”

Apparently, the raptor agreed. In a strange combination of what Q had come to think of as its affectionate responses, it screeched, nipped Q’s ear, then let its head flop on Q’s temple again. It even ruffled its feathers while leaning against Q, some of which tickled at Q’s ear and jaw.

Q laughed and turned, nudging at the feathers. “Tickling little thing,” he accused fondly. “I was thinking, I could rig up a catch on the window, so you could come and go as you liked. I could probably train you to use it with some chicken. A string to pull, with a counterweight. Should be simple enough. Or I can motorise it, and just have a little switch. You’re brilliant — it would take no time at all for you to learn how to use it. Would you like that?”

The owl screeched in response before tugging on Q’s hair.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, rubbing his face against the owl’s feathers. “But you must be discreet. If someone else is here... I don’t want to get in trouble or to have someone take you away.”

Q exhaled sharply at the sudden sensation of talons digging into his shoulder. The raptor hissed and gripped his shoulder tight for long, painful seconds.

“Easy.” He petted the raptor soothingly, unafraid despite the sting. “I won’t let that happen. No one’s going to take you away.” With a little laugh, he said, “I’m the Quartermaster of MI6. There’s nothing I can’t do — and I won’t lose you. You’re too special, and even if you ‘belong’” — he pronounced the quotes disdainfully — “to someone else, it’s obvious you don’t like that person. You chose me, didn’t you?”

With a ruffle of its feathers and another head-flop, the owl once again settled comfortably against Q, who smiled. It was silly, really — the owl was an animal, not a person, and he wasn’t one to anthropomorphise anything, not even his robots. But the owl was too clever to be _just_ an animal, even if part of that cleverness was Q’s wishful thinking and imagination.

Not that he’d change his mind. The owl was special, and he felt no guilt at all about offering it another piece of chicken in hopes that it would come to associate him with food and comfort and affection.

Maybe he’d need to get that house after all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Wednesday, 16 January 2013**

The next day flew by, with Q constantly distracted thinking about his owl. Again, the owl had spent the night with him, settling on the bedpost closest to Q’s head to sleep. It hadn’t brought Q his mobile again, but it had awakened with the alarm, and this time it had stayed to nibble at toast, though it seemed disappointed by the lack of chicken.

Q was still grinning after the last meeting of the day finally ended on time, thanks to a pre-programmed command to the building’s servers. It was amazing how quickly people wrapped their presentations when the computer — and PowerPoint — went down, forcing them to adlib.

“Leaving on time two days in a row,” Bond said with quiet amusement as Q walked out of the conference room. “Luck must be on your side this week, Q.”

“If by ‘luck’ you mean my clever coding, then yes,” Q said, grinning at the thought of his lucky owl. Not that he’d name the owl something so trite as Lucky. It was a brilliant, incredible raptor, not a golden retriever. He picked up his laptop bag and went for the heavy coat hanging by the office door. “Perhaps we’re both lucky. When was the last time London went two days without rain or snow?”

“You’re taking your laptop?” Bond asked with some surprise. “I’ll lock it in the boot, but that’s the most assurance you’ll get from me about its safety.”

Q hesitated, wondering if his owl would be looking out for him tonight. But that was silly; it wasn’t as if the owl had followed him to the Tube this morning; knowing Bond would be driving tonight, Q had left his car parked by the flat. Besides, by now, the owl would be off hunting or... well, doing whatever owls did to pass the time. Still, he shrugged and said, “It’s my personal laptop, not a secure computer. It should be fine, and I’ll want it later tonight. Unless you wanted to come back here?”

Bond stepped aside and held the door open for Q to go through. “Even if you wanted to come back here, I would probably strenuously object. I plan on plying you enough rich food and drink to make you want nothing more than to go home and sleep for a self-indulgently long time. Which, for you, is what? Six hours?” Bond smiled at Q.

Juggling the laptop bag so he could get into his coat, Q said, “Just over five last night.” He grinned again, thinking about how the owl had fallen asleep on him — an act of incredible trust for even a domesticated creature. Q had spent far too long watching and enjoying the sensation of the owl’s feathers against his neck and chin, even going so far as to turn the telly down almost too low to hear.

Bond laughed and took the bag from Q, though he didn’t actually help Q into the coat. “I was close,” he approved. “Let’s see what else I can guess. You seem the type for blankets and tea and marathoning shows on the telly.”

Q wrinkled his nose and walked with Bond to the lift, enjoying how their shoulders bumped with every other step. His owl preferred his left shoulder, which would put the owl between them. It was a rather appealing thought — though he wouldn’t share his secret with Bond just yet.

“Am I that predictable? Most nights I spend catching up on R&D, you know.”

“It’s my job to read people, remember?” Bond replied easily. “I wouldn’t have lasted long if I couldn’t guess some of the important details. It’s a skill, like any other, that I practise to keep in shape. For instance, you don’t strike me as a dog person.”

“I like the loyalty dogs seem to have,” Q pointed out. “Granted, I could do without the mess and the chewing. What about cats?”

When they reached the lift, Bond made a show of studying Q, even going so far as to hum and drag his thumb along his chin. Then he grinned and straightened. “Hit or miss,” he guessed. “If they’re affectionate, I’m sure you’d quite adore them. But if they’re standoffish, I’m guessing you put them in the same category as flatmates who don’t pay rent.”

Q laughed, staring at Bond in surprise. “That’s very eerie, 007. Is that why you’re lurking down in Q Branch to find company? You’ve scared everyone off with your mind-reading?”

“I have a myriad of talents that have scared people off. It’s hard to guess which ones are ultimately successful with any given person,” Bond said with an amused expression. The lift clanged as the doors opened, and they both stepped inside. “Lizards and amphibians?”

“Are you asking or mind-reading?” Q challenged, meeting Bond’s eyes with a little thrill of excitement. He could stare down a raptor inches from his unprotected face. Suddenly, a friendly assassin seemed positively tame by comparison, and he wondered if Bond would pick up on his confidence.

Bond met Q’s gaze with an appreciative grin. “I’m guessing you have an aversion to feeding them the live insects they require,” he said, pressing the button for the garage.

“True — but I also like petting,” he said thoughtlessly, only to go scarlet when Bond’s lips twitched up in a knowing smirk. “You can’t very well pet something that lives underwater,” he complained, turning away. But then he grinned, remembering petting his owl, and he couldn’t help but wonder just how well 007 would do when confronted by those talons and that beak. Would he even have the courage to get his fingers close without flinching?

“Do you have any pets to help with your addiction, or should I offer my services?” Bond asked with a raised eyebrow.

Q was still grinning when he turned back to Bond. “Not full-time, at the moment. I can’t help but wonder how well you’d compare to the competition, though.”

“Well,” Bond said thoughtfully. “I don’t have much hair, but I’m an excellent cuddler. I don’t purr, but I have been known to fetch slippers, or tea if the occasion calls for it.”

The thought of Bond cuddling and fetching tea and maybe, just maybe feeding bits of dinner to the owl made Q laugh. He leaned closer to Bond, feeling an unusual affection for him. “Mine gets me blankets. And brings me my mobile when the alarm goes off in the morning,” he said, intentionally mysterious.

“Oh, I can do blankets,” Bond said in a reassuring voice. “And better than fetching your mobile, I’d make sure it was on the bedside table even before crawling under the covers, so we wouldn’t have to brave the morning cold to find the alarm.”

“Mine doesn’t steal the covers — nor does it snore,” he said, though he frowned slightly. Calling his owl ‘it’ felt disrespectful. “He, that is,” he finally corrected, deciding to start thinking of his owl as male until he found a nest of eggs in the pantry. The owl had no spots, and female barn owls — at least this particular variety — seemed to favour them.

“You know, I have no idea if I snore,” Bond said with a curious tilt to his head. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s been in a position to tell me.”

A bit surprised by that, Q said, “Ask me after this weekend. I might well have an answer for you.”

Bond’s responding grin was surprised and appreciative, but Q thought he could detect a hint of sadness when Bond said, “That would be nice.”

Q didn’t think. After months of too much work and too little socialisation, the owl had helped him rediscover his tactile tendencies. He put a hand on Bond’s arm, saying, “Not if you don’t —” before he cut off, realising that this might not be a date at all. At least, not between _them_. “Oh, hell, is this — I’m sorry, James. Fuck. Is there someone — a woman —”

Bond cut him off with a gentle thumb on his mouth. “If you’d rather skip pool, I’m happy to marathon telly and practise cuddling skills with you on the couch. Maybe bring you tea and takeaway every once in a while.”

Q’s instinct was to say no — to make absolutely certain that he wasn’t going to be one more notch on Bond’s bedpost. But looking into Bond’s eyes, he nodded instead, saying, “I’m absolutely rubbish at pool, you know.” And he barely nudged at Bond’s thumb — not quite a kiss, but the sort of gentle caress that had become so familiar against feathers.

“Your couch or mine?” Bond asked, smiling softly, moving his thumb to brush lightly along Q’s jaw.

Q shivered, thinking that Bond’s seduction was the most dangerous kind, slow and subtle, barely noticed until it was too late. “Yours,” he said, thinking of his owl. Then, because he didn’t want his owl to think he was _gone_ , he said, “Mine.” But he couldn’t let James find out. “No. Yours. _Fuck_.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “I don’t have any fluffy blankets, but I do have a very large widescreen telly, if that helps.”

“Mine,” Q finally decided. “Perfectly good telly, soft blankets, and... well, not much else. It’s a walk-up, and not in the best part of town, I’m afraid. You might want to take a taxi, rather than your car.”

Bond laughed and wrapped an arm around Q’s shoulders. “Don’t worry. It’s insured.”

Q leaned against Bond’s body and put an arm around his waist, shivering in delight at the strong touch. He’d just have to take the chance that Bond would meet his owl. He didn’t like the thought of having the owl show up while he wasn’t home.

 

~~~

 

Only when Q unlocked the building door did the reality of the situation hit: He was bringing James Bond, with his bespoke suits and expensive sportscars and Kensington flat, into his grubby little walk-up. He flinched inwardly and headed for the staircase, suddenly conscious of the peeling paint and scratched bannister.

“As I said, I really do plan on moving. I can’t even schedule time with an estate agent, after everything that’s happened,” he said apologetically over his shoulder.

“It’s charming,” Bond said, looking around. “The older buildings in London have so much history. Can you imagine how many thousands of people have walked up this staircase? The stories the walls could tell you if they were so inclined?” He smiled at Q as he took his hand from the banister long enough to brush a thumb along the wall.

Delighted, Q laughed and said, “It’s all I could afford, before. I wouldn’t even know where to begin, to look for somewhere new. I think that’s why I haven’t just put my foot down to take time off: I’m nervous about moving. And getting a car that works reliably, though I suppose I could... just speak incessantly for the rest of the night. Sorry. I seem to have developed a habit of talking to myself.” _Or my owl_ , he thought, embarrassed at his babbling.

“I don’t mind,” Bond said, keeping pace behind Q on the narrow staircase. “I quite like your voice. And if you’d like any help, let me know. I’m something of an expert at car shopping. And, unfortunately, flat shopping as well.”

It was flirtatious, but also refreshingly honest. Q knew full well that Bond often seduced his way through his missions, so it was no surprise that he was good at finding just the right way to make Q smile. Not that Q minded.

“My own personal concierge — _Shit_ ,” Q said, hesitating at the top of the fourth floor landing. He turned and looked back at Bond, for once enjoying the height advantage the steps gave him. “Do you mind if we order in? All I have is food that lives in cans. I think even the bread has gone odd. The toast was a bit off this morning.”

Bond looked at Q contemplatively for a moment. “Now here is where I have trouble. You _look_ like the type who prefers ultra-lite tofu, MSG-free meals, and fresh vegetables, but something tells me that’s deceptive.” He paused, staring. “Mediterranean of some kind, I’m guessing. I’d say Italian — comfort food — except that first-world bastardised Italian is all about pouring on the sugary red sauce you don’t actually find in Italy.”

Q stared at him, remembering the food cooked by an ex-girlfriend’s Italian grandmother. The woman was intimidating — she didn’t speak a word of English, yet was somehow able to convey the most dire threats imaginable through a glare alone, and she made the sort of food that had Q seriously considering proposing marriage. To her. Attempts to find restaurant recreations had all failed, because he had no idea what to order, and saying ‘the thing with the cheese and the white sauce’ yielded... questionable results.

“You are officially terrifying,” he said, reaching out to take Bond’s hand. “Absolutely accurate.”

“I know a place,” Bond said, taking Q’s hand and brushing his dry mouth over the knuckles. “It looks like a dive on the outside, but it’s run by a woman who is just stubborn enough to refuse to cater to ‘pale British palates’ I think she called it. Her mougio is the best I’ve ever tasted. She doesn’t deliver, exactly, but her grandson will do favours.”

“Oh, god,” Q said, hand tightening on Bond’s. He tugged Bond up the last step and headed for his flat. He wanted to get out of his coat and shoes. “What do they need? Credit repair? No health inspections for the next century? I’ll rob the bloody treasury for them.”

Bond laughed and pulled out his mobile. “I’ll discuss it with her later. What would you like?” He paused and looked up. “Or should I guess?” he added with a mischievous glint in his eye.

Normally, Q would interrogate servers and order dishes to his precise specifications. This time, though, he just pulled out the keys to his flat and said, “I trust you to decide. You haven’t been wrong yet.”

Bond grinned in approval and released Q’s hand to dial. He followed Q inside and shrugged out of his coat, switching the phone from one hand to the other. What followed was a short but somewhat excited-sounding conversation in Italian. It lasted about three minutes, with Bond smiling the entire time, before he ended the call and put the mobile back in his pocket. “It’ll be delivered within the hour,” he said.

Q smiled. “How very considerate,” he said, taking hold of Bond’s hand again.

Bond took the hint and stepped forward, and Q closed the last few inches between them to steal his first kiss. It was surprisingly comfortable; he wasn’t nervous or tense at all, as if they’d been dating for weeks and had gone past that awkward, fumbling stage. Some other time, he would’ve wondered how that had happened. Now, he let everything slip away but the feeling of Bond’s body as strong arms pulled him close.

His whole body was tingling by the time the kiss ended. He opened his eyes and said softly, “Why didn’t you offer to buy me dinner before?”

“I wasn’t entirely certain you ate dinner with any regularity,” Bond said with a soft smile. “But now that I know, I’ll be sure to take advantage of the opportunity more often.”

 

~~~

 

“You,” Q said a bit extravagantly, scraping at the last of the sauce hidden at the edges of his plate, “are a genius.” He cleaned the sauce off his fork, resisting the temptation to lick his plate to get the last little bits.

“The genius is Martina Marie — I’m just the one with the connections.” Bond dug around in the bottom of the bag of not-really-takeaway, pushing aside a massive stack of serviettes to pull out one last innocuous box. “Dessert?” he asked with a crooked grin. He set the container halfway between them, flipped it open with a flourish, and sat back, still smiling.

Much to Q’s surprise, inside were four small clear plastic dessert cups. Each held an individual almost-cannoli: a generous serving of ricotta over a large strawberry, sprinkled with miniature dark chocolate chips.

“I am never letting you leave,” Q threatened, taking one of the cups out of the box. Then he set it back and suggested, “I’ll get us dessert forks. Living room?”

Bond closed the box and stood. “Absolutely. I assume there are blankets to be found by the couch?”

Q nodded, thinking this might just be his best date ever, though he was still on the fence about his owl. He had a feeling, however, that Bond would understand his desire to keep the owl hidden, rather than calling a rescue organisation. “The, ah, telly, if you want — the remote,” he said, his thoughts scattered.

Already halfway to the living room, Bond stopped and turned his head to look at Q, brows raised. “Something wrong?”

“No. Not at all.” He felt a blush rise and hurried into the kitchen. “The media server is set up with anything you might want to watch,” he added before thinking that Bond probably wasn’t the type to sit on the sofa and actually watch telly. Or wear clothes, for that matter. Q couldn’t deny his interest, though the thought was admittedly disconcerting. He wasn’t entirely certain he was ready for things to go _too_ far tonight. It would be too easy for Bond to write off their first date as their last... though that was an unfair thought. So far, Bond had been, trite as it was to think, a perfect gentleman.

Bond hesitated for a moment before turning to finish his short trek to the couch. He set the dessert box on the coffee table before pulling Q’s wool blanket off the back of the couch. He toed his shoes off and settled down, watching Q expectantly. “I’m not even going to pretend to know how to access your media server, so I’ll just wait.”

After debating tea and deciding it would take too long, Q brought over forks. He couldn’t deny feeling a little thrill of excitement when Bond shook out the blanket and held it up for him. He curled up in the middle of the sofa, next to Bond, and waited for him to arrange the blanket before offering him a fork.

Then he leaned forward, glancing at the window as he picked up the remote. It had the usual buttons for a telly, but also had a complete keyboard built into one end, with a tiny trackball. “If there’s anything you want to see, I probably have it. I have a dozen subscriptions to” — he hesitated as he glanced at the owl’s window, suddenly wondering if those great talons had scored gouges in the windowsill; if they had, Bond would surely notice — “media services.”

Bond followed his gaze over to the window. “I trust your judgement. I haven’t had much time to watch movies lately; chances are that if it’s less than three years old, I haven’t seen it.” When he turned to look back at Q, his expression was curious. “Would you like me to check the security of your window?”

“No,” Q said, probably too emphatically. He pointedly took one of the desserts out of the box and handed it to Bond as a distraction. He turned on the telly and started searching through the file menus. “I really do have to move, anyway. I have some ideas for a home security system; there’s just no sense in implementing it here, if I’m going to leave soon.”

“That would make sense if you had plans to move immediately,” Bond replied. “But if you haven’t even started looking yet, it doesn’t hurt to make simple upgrades, to keep you safe in the meantime.” He wrapped an arm around Q’s shoulders and tugged him closer, then steadied the cup on his lap. It was a balancing act to keep the dessert cup from falling as he scooped out ricotta. He held it up to Q, asking, “How about Monsters, Inc.? I’ve heard that was a good movie.”

“Really? It’s animated,” Q said, reaching for the fork.

Bond laughed and pulled the fork out of Q’s reach. “That’s not exactly how this supposed to work,” he chastised teasingly. “And I enjoy animation. I’m a fan of escapism rather than realism when it comes to what I watch or read in my downtime.”

“You surprise me,” Q admitted, leaning forward to take the dessert off the fork. Whatever else he might have said was lost under the taste of the dessert, a perfect balance of sweet sugar, creamy ricotta, and tart fruit. He closed his eyes, forgetting about searching through file menus, and finally swallowed. “Oh, that’s good,” he murmured. “Why didn’t we start with this?”

“I don’t mind skipping dinner if you don’t, though having dinner first extends this rather pleasant experience.” Bond dipped the fork in the cup again and held it up.

“Tactics versus strategy, Bond. Dinner first is tactically sound thinking, but strategically, starting _and_ ending with dessert simply means more dessert altogether. Strategy is my specialty,” Q said, looking into Bond’s eyes as he closed his lips over the fork and drew back.

“You are making it far, far too easy to misinterpret the type of sweet indulgence here, Q,” Bond said with a chuckle. But unlike what Q might have expected based on his reputation, Bond didn’t lean in to use the opening to his advantage. He scooped out another bit of strawberry and ricotta and held it up.

Delighted with the unexpectedly affectionate turn the evening had taken, Q took the fork from Bond’s hand. “Your turn, isn’t it?” he asked, twisting to lift the fork to Bond’s lips. “You’re too goal-oriented, 007. You neglect yourself. You need a caretaker.”

“I think I can safely say no one has ever accused me of neglecting myself before,” Bond said humorously. Then, as if to prove his point, he ignored the fork in favour of dipping his finger into the dessert bowl, leaving the strawberry to focus on the ricotta. He offered the sweet filling on his fingertip to Q, smirking.

“Oh, that’s cheating,” he accused, heart in his throat. His hesitation was barely a token effort; he forgot all about the fork in his hand as he touched his tongue to Bond’s finger and licked.

Bond didn’t smirk as Q might have expected him to; his gaze was intent as he waited for Q to finish. He dragged his finger over Q’s bottom teeth and lip as he withdrew it, and his eyes dropped to Q’s mouth. “Another thing I’ve never been accused of: Playing fair.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Thursday, 17 January 2013**

Q awoke, alone and surprisingly refreshed, to the sound of tapping over the softer hiss of rain. He looked over at his clock and saw he had another fifteen minutes before his alarm would go off, but he didn’t close his eyes. Instead, he rolled over to face the window and grinned at the shadow outside.

“You’re back,” he said, pleased, and sat up to open the bedroom window. Rain blew in, accompanied by the wet owl that hopped down onto his blanket as though eager to get out of the weather. “Did you try the living room window already? Or did you know to look for me here at this hour?”

The owl hopped its way down to the end of the bed, where it perched on Q’s upturned toes. In a great shuffle of white and brown feathers, it shook its body and flared its wings. Rainwater splattered everywhere, and Q had to hold up a hand to keep the water from getting in his eyes.

Laughing, he ducked and scrubbed his face with a corner of the blanket. “You’re soaked, poor thing. Do you want to stay here today? I can probably leave a window open for you,” he offered, leaning forward to hold out a hand. He was no longer afraid of the owl biting him, even though he had no assurance that the owl was tame or domesticated and not simply behaving strangely.

In quick, unhesitating movements, the owl hopped down off Q’s foot and made its way across the blanket to present its chest for rubbing. Its feathers were still puffy and sticking out in some places from the quick attempt at drying.

Q took the time to smooth down the disarrayed feathers. “I have a feeling a towel would make things worse, not better. Did you want breakfast? There’s a bit of leftover takeaway from last night. No dessert, I’m afraid,” he added, feeling a blush rise despite the fact that he was alone except for the owl.

Last night had been something of a surprise. Bond had insisted on feeding Q every bite of dessert, though he’d accepted the same courtesy in return. But the sensual evening had ended with little more than kissing and comfortable, warm cuddling — not at all what Q had expected. And yet, strangely, it had been perfect. Just enough, rather than too much.

“I have to say, I’m very glad that you didn’t stop by last night. Did you fly past the window and see I wasn’t alone? He might like you, but I don’t think it’s the right time for you two to meet.”

The owl shook itself, blinked at Q, then launched itself off the bed in a wet flutter. Predictably, it headed into the kitchen.

Q took the hint and got out of bed, pausing to yawn and stretch. He wasn’t particularly hungry — not after last night’s rich dinner — but he could do with tea, and he’d need to find something for the owl. “I still need to find a name for you,” he said as he followed the raptor into the kitchen. “Do I need to start buying mice for you? God, I hope not. You liked the chicken well — Oh! Do you eat fish?” he asked, diverting from the kettle to the pantry. “I might have a tin of tuna. Would that be all right?”

The owl landed on the counter next to where Q had opened the soup tins two days earlier and stared at Q, obviously expectant.

“Tuna it is,” Q agreed, and found the tuna. He opened it and tipped the contents into a bowl for the owl. Only then did he turn to make his tea. “It’s fish. Of course, you probably know that. I’ll stop by the store tonight and pick up something better. And I can leave the window open for you — not the one over my bed, though. The one in the living room. I’ll lay out some towels in case the rain picks up.”

It didn’t take long for the owl to consume the pile of tuna, scooping it up in big chunks and swallowing them whole. It shuffled its feathers contentedly when it was done, then took off from the counter towards the living room. Seconds later, it came back with the blanket it seemed to favour and once again dropped it square on Q’s head.

“This is your thing, isn’t it?” Q asked, voice muffled by the layers. He got the blanket over his shoulder just in time for the owl to land, talons digging into the thick wool. “There must be something proper for people to use — a padded shirt, or perhaps something with straps. Oh. Maybe one of those military jumpers, with the reinforced padding at the shoulders. They’re meant for shooting and carrying rucksacks, aren’t they?”

Still chatting to the owl, he picked up his tea and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Instead of leaving, the owl just walked down his back when he bent over, leaving Q awkwardly trapped for a moment before he stood enough to force the owl to climb back up to his shoulder.

“I’ll need to shower eventually,” Q warned. A bit tentatively, he started the shower running, hoping the sound and splashing water didn’t startle the owl. “I’ve got work today, but I can make you somewhere to nest, if you’d like.”

As soon as Q leaned in to test the heat of the shower with his hand, the owl hopped off his arm and flew out of the bathroom, throwing an annoyed screech behind it as it left. “One of us has to work to keep you in chicken and tuna!” Q commented with a grin. He bundled the blanket onto the counter, dropped his pants, and got in the shower.

His owl had come back. Again. That had to prove that the owl was _his_ — and by choice. He’d definitely leave the window open, at least until he could rig a way for the owl to open it from the outside. In fact, he could probably design that today and have it installed by the end of the weekend.

 

~~~

 

Q did a poor job of hiding his grin through the morning’s meetings. He called in a lunch delivery for the whole department — always a nice treat — because he wanted to work through lunch so he could get home to his owl, though he ended up spending his lunch looking up owl names from legends, mythology, and sci-fi/fantasy.

So he was distracted when Tanner called down to Q Branch and asked him up to a last-minute meeting. Expecting it to be the usual notification that some self-important minister was coming for a tour, Q asked Danielle to check up on security protocols, picked up his tablet, and headed upstairs, idly wondering if he should coat his windowsill with talon-proof metal sheets or if he should wait until he bought a house.

“Afternoon, Eve,” he said cheerfully, giving her a grin when he entered the executive office.

“Aren’t you chipper,” she said with a matching grin. “What’s her name, then? Or his?”

Q laughed slyly. “I’ll tell you when I find out.”

“Oh. _Well_ , then,” she said just as slyly, and buzzed the security airlock open. “Good luck.”

Once the outer door closed, the inner door opened, and Q let himself into M’s office, just as Mallory was saying, “... per cent at least. Ah, Q. Come in. Drink?” Tanner gave Q a nod from where he was standing by the sideboard.

“Thank you.” Bourbon wasn’t Q’s drink of choice, but Mallory had his traditions. It never hurt to indulge the habits of the man who signed off on quarterly budgets.

“Sorry to drag you in, but we’ve got a bit of a last-minute emergency,” M said over the sound of Tanner pouring.

Alarm prickled up Q’s spine; Mallory’s last-minute emergencies often meant something important had caught fire. “Nothing too serious, I hope.”

“Only as serious as any dog-and-pony show can get. There’s an industry conference ending tomorrow afternoon, and I’m afraid Sanderson, from Intentions — You’ve worked with him on the Dubai job?” When Q nodded, Mallory continued, “Sanderson’s taken ill. Bad shellfish. We need someone familiar with the satcom programme to finish his presentation tomorrow.”

“Oh. Well, Danielle could do it, but her husband is a bit of a scheduling nightmare,” Q said, trying to think of his other, less senior team leaders. Of the six who were competent, four weren’t trustworthy to speak in public, one was on maternity leave, and the last tended to scratch himself in odd places when he was distracted.

“It’s at a higher level, I’m afraid.”

Q’s eyes narrowed. He took the bourbon Tanner offered. “Executive level, I take it?”

“That would be ideal, yes,” Tanner agreed. “I’d go, but I’ve been putting off a medical appointment for weeks now. They’ve threatened to send a retrieval team with tranquiliser guns.”

“Mmm.” Q sipped the bourbon, ignoring the taste. “ _Where_ is this conference?” he asked, pointedly not yet reminding them that he wouldn’t fly. Hopefully it was somewhere far off — California, Brazil, Sydney — and he could refuse and go back home to his owl.

“Lower Tadfield. Just a couple of hours’ drive. You could be back by tomorrow dinnertime, though the reservation is good through Sunday, if you wanted to get in a round of golf,” Tanner said cheerfully.

“Golf,” Q repeated.

“Skeet shooting?” M offered, holding up a colourful brochure. “They do management initiative training courses. Could be fun.”

“Lovely,” Q said with a sigh, wondering how he’d explain this to his owl.

 

~~~

 

Q stared at Google Maps in horror, looking between the giant display on the wall and his laptop screen, searching for any hint that the program had been hacked to remove all major roads from the area of Lower Tadfield. Unfortunately, though, it hadn’t. There wasn’t a single highway closer than fourteen kilometres, and the nearest exit was more like twenty.

“A couple of hours away,” he muttered bleakly, turning when he heard his office door open. Some of his irritation eased at the sight of Bond looking at him curiously around the edge of the door. “007,” he said, barely remembering not to call him James.

“Quartermaster,” Bond said with a fond smile. “You look like you’ve just been told to install Vista on one of your laptops.”

Q couldn’t help but grin. “Then I might just have a task for you. But no. I’m supposed to go” — he gestured at the screen — “there. Wherever ‘there’ is. Have you ever been to Lower Tadfield? It’s all back roads.”

Bond frowned and walked into the office. “Yes. Deceptively beautiful, but not on my list of places to ever visit again, if I can avoid it.” He made his way to where Q was, standing only a few tempting inches away. His frown deepened as he looked at the map. “Can _you_ avoid it?”

“No, Sanderson from Intentions is sick. I need to finish his presentation tomorrow.” Q huffed in amusement. “And then I get to play golf or shoot clay pigeons.”

Bond looked over at Q with a raised eyebrow. “You’re staying the night there?”

“I’d rather not, actually, but this place is a damned maze. And my GPS isn’t updated with maps there,” he said in disbelief. “The last thing I need is to try and drive home after a bloody ‘professional’ conference — which means drinks all around — and end up driving to Calais by accident.”

“When are you leaving?” Bond asked, still studying the map.

“I have to be there by half ten tomorrow morning, prepared to finish the presentation.” Q looked thoughtfully at Bond and decided that there was no harm in a bit of cheating. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in providing security, would you, Agent?” he asked hopefully. The idea of being ‘forced’ to share a room at a resort conference centre didn’t sound so bad at all.

“I would love to, but Tanner roped me into taking over a couple of classes tomorrow. But I can get one of the other agents to take over. Maybe 004 — he should be back in-country, if he hasn’t been shot.” Bond nudged Q’s shoulder with his own and grinned at him briefly before pulling out his mobile. “I can always threaten to shoot him myself if he tries to say no.”

“That would be — Oh, god, that’s awful of me to say ‘lovely’,” Q said with an embarrassed laugh. “MI6 would appreciate your diligent attention to my security, if possible.”

Bond flicked a thumb across the touchscreen, switching screens to his contact list and tapping on the first entry. He held the phone up to his ear, waited for the call to connect, and greeted whoever answered, presumably 004, with, “So, how would you feel about kicking around some new recruits tomorrow?” He winked at Q.

“Oh, we’ll be back tomorrow night,” Q said in a stage whisper, thinking of his owl. He could stop at home to pack a bag tonight, open a can of tuna for the owl — maybe two cans, if it wanted breakfast — leave first thing in the morning, and then come back as early as possible tomorrow night for dinner.

Bond nodded to him. “No, you won’t get in trouble for it. The Quartermaster has found himself ordered to Lower Tadfield for a presentation, and I thought it prudent to drive him. Would you mind covering the... Excellent.” Bond rolled his eyes and sighed. “Thanks. I will.” He hung up and pocketed the phone. “Looks like we’re off to the countryside tomorrow.”

“You’re wonderful,” Q said sincerely. He felt momentarily disappointed that he wouldn’t be spending the night with Bond, but he’d at least see his owl. “Would you like to drive? Pick me up at some ungodly hour?” he asked.

“Ungodly hour?” Bond repeated with a wry smile. “If you insist. Though there are alternatives. I can even bring a movie for you this time, if you like.”

Q’s breath caught, but thinking of his owl, he shook his head. “I should go pack, just in case we’re there overnight. But will you let me take you to an early breakfast?”

Bond’s smile was unreserved and free of disappointment. “Absolutely. What time would you like me to pick you up?”

Q smiled gratefully, thinking that if all went well, maybe he’d introduce Bond to the owl. “How’s seven sound?” He suggested, thinking that would be enough time to feed the owl breakfast.

“Perfect, actually.” Bond tipped his head to the side thoughtfully. “Perhaps we should get the breakfast to go. Have an early picnic with the windows down while pretending we’re not moving.”

“Excellent idea. Much better than that incident with the fuel tanker you drove off the dam,” Q said, grinning.

“Well, hopefully at least as entertaining,” Bond said with quiet amusement. He brushed a quick, gentle kiss to Q’s cheek, then turned and thankfully left without noticing the sudden blush colouring Q’s face.

 

~~~

 

“I’m home,” Q called hopefully as soon as he let himself into his flat. He left his coat on in hopes that the owl would come to him without stopping for the blanket first.

There was a loud, screech in response, but no accompanying sound of flapping wings. Q paused at the door, waiting, but the bird didn’t come to him. It merely screeched again, this time loud and long — a sound that made Q flinch and hope his neighbours wouldn’t hear.

Frowning, Q hurried towards the noise, only to find his blanket thrashing and writhing on the floor in front of the sofa. Visions of broken feathers and strained wings filled his mind, and he rushed to rescue the poor owl, saying, “It’s all right. I’m here. It’s all right.”

Wary of the owl’s deadly talons, Q unwound the blanket as best he could. The owl was on its back, feathers disarrayed but not bent or broken, and Q didn’t hesitate to comb his fingers carefully through them, murmuring soothing nonsense the whole time.

“You and your silly blanket, love. I’m still wearing my coat, see?” It was ridiculous, but he felt compelled to say something, and not even a gun to his head would make him use baby-talk. “You’re all right now. And I stopped at the store to get you dinner. Isn’t that good?”

Once free, the owl screeched again, but much more softly this time. It hopped from leg to leg in irritation, shaking its feathers and preening at them. Every once in a while it would stop and rest its gaze on Q, who couldn’t hide his grin as he tried to help smooth the feathers back into place. It took several minutes for the bird to calm, but when it finally did, it leaned out to nip Q’s ear before settling, tucking its feathers in and hunching its head into its shoulders.

“It’s freezing in here. I need to shut the window. If you need out, just let me know.” Q went to the window, trying to ignore the way his dress shoes squelched on the carpet where snow and rain had blown in. Of course, his deposit on the flat was meaningless with his new salary, and having his owl free to come and go was worth any damage short of flooding. “I have to go to a conference tomorrow, but I’ll try and be back tomorrow night. I’m going with James. Remember, I mentioned him? I think maybe I can introduce you to him soon. Would you like that?”

The bird’s agitation grew again as it watched Q walk away, and it craned its neck to watch as he moved towards the window. When Q’s hands rested on the frame, the bird fluttered and screeched, then flew unsteadily across the room towards him. It didn’t land, however — it seemed unable to make up its mind about where to go. It screeched again, flew back to the blanket without actually picking it up, then back up in what Q might have imagined was irritation.

Q patted his shoulder, saying, “It’s all right. My jacket’s thick enough that you won’t hurt me, love. And I’ll need it anyway, until the flat warms up. Aren’t you freezing?”

The owl dropped on Q’s shoulder in a surprisingly graceless movement, shuffling its feathers as soon as it stopped flapping them. It hopped sideways a few inches, gripping Q’s shoulder and jacket tightly, until it was pressed right up to Q’s neck and the side of his head. It nipped at Q’s ear again, and settled in the same almost squished posture it had adopted earlier on the counter.

Reaching up to pet the owl, Q carefully walked to the kitchen. “Poor thing. You weren’t hurt, were you? I can look later. Let’s give you a little something to eat.”

He opened the rotisserie chicken and put it onto a plate. He cut off enough for his own dinner, along with the side dishes he’d picked up, and twisted to look at the owl on his shoulder. “Would you like me to cut it for you or can you manage? I don’t mind feeding you. Spoiling you,” he corrected affectionately. He used his fingers to tear a strip off the chicken and offered it to the owl.

After a long moment of absolute stillness, the owl finally seemed to decide that the chicken was worth the effort to move. In a motion much slower than its usual snatch-and-swallow, it craned its head out slowly, bit at the chicken, and tore off a small chunk to swallow before resting again against Q’s warmth.

“Poor thing,” he said again, and dumped everything onto one plate. He tucked the roll of kitchen towels under his arm, picked up the plate, and steadied the owl with his free hand. Then, with careful steps, he went back to the living room, where he settled on the sofa and pulled the offending blanket up onto his lap. “Can you sit here? It’s easier for me to feed you, and you won’t fall down if you want to go to sleep.” He patted his leg.

With a screech that was unfortunately very close to Q’s ear, the owl tightened its grip on Q’s shoulder and didn’t move. Q laughed and leaned back, putting the plate of food on his lap instead. “All right, love. You win.” He ripped off an owl-bite-sized piece of chicken and offered it to the owl. “I’ll leave the window open for you tomorrow, but I might not be home until very late. I can put out some tuna for you, for breakfast — I’ll be up too early for you — and I found some beef jerky. It’s the best I can do until I get home, unless you can learn to open the refrigerator or use a tin opener.”

The bird shuffled its feathers a bit and slowly moved from foot to foot, but didn’t reach out for the chicken. It turned to bite Q’s ear and didn’t let go, the pressure gentle but insistent.

“I’ll need that,” Q warned, holding carefully still. He didn’t want to drop the chicken blindly, but he couldn’t look down without risking his ear. He finally ate the piece himself and tugged off his glasses. “Is that what you want? My glasses? They’ll look terrible on you,” he said, offering one arm of the plastic frame. The bird completely ignored them, but after a few seconds it finally released Q. It kept its head turned, however, and Q could feel the sharp edge of its beak in his hair.

“Oh, don’t you start. Who has time for a proper haircut?” Q challenged, turning to brush his cheek over the owl’s head. “I’m in meetings all day and running operations all night — when I’m not feeding you,” he added, ripping off another piece of chicken. “A little more? Don’t make me worry that you’re living on rats.”

Finally, the owl turned its head and took the offered chicken, snapping and swallowing slowly before turning back to rest its beak in Q’s hair again. It couldn’t seem to stop shuffling its feathers, but the restless moving of its feet finally stopped.

“All right. You must be hurt,” Q said worriedly, wondering who he could get to take his place at the conference tomorrow. If his owl was hurt, he’d find a way to get out of it, even if he had to go to Mallory’s office and throw up on his desk. He braced the owl on his shoulder with one hand so he could move the plate of food to the coffee table. Then he turned, saying, “Can I see you? I’d like to look at your wings, love.” He hinted by trying to slide a finger under one wing.

It was only with apparent reluctance that the bird allowed the touch. It stretched its wing under Q’s gentle fingers, but didn’t otherwise move. When Q withdrew his hand, the owl tucked its wing back to its side and leaned against his head again. Murmuring encouragement, Q twisted around to check the other wing as best he could, though the owl stubbornly refused to turn around.

Finally, Q told himself not to worry — the owl hadn’t made a sound as if it were in pain, and it had flown without any difficulty. He petted everywhere he could reach, carefully combing his fingers through the owl’s feathers. They were fairly neat on the owl’s breast and wings, but its back was a mess, reminding Q of his own hair in the morning.

“Leave it to you to want to be pretty before a dinner date,” he teased, resting his cheek against the owl’s head as he twisted his wrist so he could get at all the feathers on its back.

Whatever tension the owl seemed to be holding in its small frame slowly melted away under Q’s careful attention. It shuffled and moved in obvious pleasure, leaning into Q’s hands, or moving its wings and head out of the way to make room. Finally, it willingly stretched out its left wing, hovering inches in front of Q’s face. It took a few seconds for Q’s vision to adjust to the bright white feathers being so close to his eyes, but soon he noticed one of its primary flight feathers was twisted near the centre.

“Oh. That can’t be comfortable,” Q said, hesitating before he reached up to touch the feather. He took hold of the wing a little further down, trying to keep it extended, but all he could imagine was the feather twisting in on itself and snapping. “God. All right. Do I need to look this up on the internet? If I hurt you, please don’t bite.”

Cautiously, he moved both hands to the offending feather and tried to ease it straight. It didn’t seem to be bent or cracked — just caught in an awkward twist — and he gently pulled and worked the feather until it was flat. Gingerly, he smoothed his hand down, looking from the wing to the owl’s face. “Is that better? Do you have any more? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

With what was probably its quietest screech — still loud in Q’s ear — the bird pulled its wing back in and immediately started preening. Its claws gripped tight on the jacket, strong enough to tear the fabric, but Q didn’t mind. When it was finished, it turned its head back towards Q but didn’t stop shuffling its feathers.

It took Q a moment to realise it wanted _him_ to do something about the self-inflicted feathery disarray. “Spoiling you,” Q muttered, though he grinned and ran his hand over the owl’s feathers. The contrast of its soft, downy under-layer and its harder outer layer, with sharp quills and barbs, was fascinating. Much better than a cat or dog to pet, he thought. And much more interesting.

“What shall I call you?” he asked. “Every time I look for owl names online, they’re either female names or from a Harry Potter website. And since you have yet to bring me my Hogwarts letter, I think we can assume you’re... What’s the muggle equivalent for an owl?”

When Q’s hand moved from the owl’s back to its breast again, it nipped at his fingers as they passed — not hard enough to hurt, or even pinch. It released him immediately, then turned to start tugging at his hair again.

Q laughed and let the owl have its way with his hair. “Will you eat in a little while, then?” he asked hopefully, reaching out for the plate. He got it onto his lap without dumping the owl. “You can stay here tonight, of course, and tomorrow, if you want. Oh! I can leave the telly on for you. You’re very clever. I’ll bet I could teach you to use the remote.”

Throughout Q’s calm one-sided conversation, the bird didn’t stop playing with his hair. As though preening his hair, it tugged and scraped and raked its beak around his ear and at the nape of his neck. At one point, when Q tried to turn his head to see, the bird stopped him with a nip at the ear that it didn’t release until Q stopped moving.

“Perhaps you won’t like James after all,” Q said as he decided to get on with his own dinner — keeping his head as still as he could. “His hair is short, but nicer than mine. Very gold, because he gets out in the sun. Can owls see colours?” he wondered. “His eyes are like the sky. Beautiful blue. When he gets angry, or in bright light, they’re more like glacier ice. That’s when the sky is reflected through compressed ice,” he added before realising he was explaining geology to an owl. Well, it wasn’t as if talking about his growing crush on an assassin was any more normal.

“No, you would like him,” he decided. “He’s helping me tomorrow. He’s very safe — very dangerous, but safe, that is. He’d do whatever was necessary to protect people he likes. I know that much from his files. He wouldn’t tell anyone about you.”

After several more minutes of playing with Q’s hair, the owl apparently satisfied itself. It settled into a position that was fast becoming familiar, its soft and comforting weight sinking trustingly into Q’s warmth. It stopped moving entirely, except for an occasional turn of its head to watch Q’s hands as they went back and forth between the bowl on his lap and his mouth.

Q had never thought of himself as lonely. He liked privacy and solitude. He enjoyed being able to walk to the kitchen for a glass of water in his pants or to leave the bathroom door open when he showered. He liked not having anyone to answer to — or to depend upon for a share of rent and utilities, honestly. But the owl was more than simply a companion. It was smart, even if most of that intellect had to be Q’s efforts to anthropomorphise an animal’s instincts and responses, and it took hardly any imagination at all to interpret its behaviour as affection. And unmistakably, the owl had _chosen_ him — even if it was just because he was a pushover, willing to give the owl baked chicken and tinned fish and whatever else it might want.

“I hope you stay,” he said softly, rubbing his cheek against the owl’s head.

The owl pressed back against Q, still and silent, and gradually fell asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Friday, 18 January 2013**

The owl insisted upon leaving some time before dawn. Q had a half-drowsy memory of waking long enough to open the window, shivering in the blast of cold air, and then burrowing down into the blankets again. The owl had slept right beside him, talons dug into the edge of the mattress, with Q’s fingers resting on one long toe.

It was half six when the alarm on Q’s mobile roused him — if it could be called that. He dragged himself just outside the shower and stood there, waiting for the water to warm up. Between one blink and the next, it seemed, he found himself sitting against the cabinet, wrapped up in a towel as a makeshift blanket, with clouds of steam billowing around him.

“Oh, fuck,” he muttered, hearing a knock at the door.

Somehow, he made it to his feet without killing himself. He staggered out, wrapping the towel around his waist, and opened the door without checking the visitor’s identity. Too late, he thought about security and enemies and assassins.

Fortunately, the assassin waiting for him was one of his own, looking at him with amusement.

“Um,” Q said eloquently, shivering. He’d forgotten to close the bedroom window after letting the owl out, and the flat was absolutely freezing.

“Good morning,” Bond said, his crooked smile too bright and his eyes too focused for the ungodly hour. “Or, morning anyway.” Without waiting for an invitation, he stepped through the doorway and closed and locked the door behind him. Before Q even had a chance to respond, Bond had an arm wrapped around his shoulders and was guiding him back towards the bathroom where clouds of steam were still swirling in lazy upward drafts. “In you get,” Bond said quietly.

“It’s not my fault,” Q protested, wondering at what point the towel had disappeared. He probably should have been embarrassed by the situation — and would be, once he was awake. For now, the water was soothingly hot compared to the air in his flat, and he wondered if Bond would be kind enough to investigate the reason the flat was freezing, or if he’d assume the building was unheated. In this neighbourhood, heat was certainly not a given.

“I’m sure your distraction was worth the attention,” Bond said soothingly. He closed the shower door and disappeared for what felt like only seconds, though the cooler temperature of the water by the time he got back betrayed the fact that Q’s sense of time probably wasn’t fully accurate.

Bond opened the door a crack to see Q in the same position he’d left him, and chuckled. “Do you need help?”

“I could take down whole enemy governments, if the bloody oversight committee would stay the hell out of my way,” Q said, because it seemed somewhat important. More important than remembering how to shower, at any rate. He did, however, find the soap and rubbed the bar absently over his chest, even though that put his whole shower out of order. Shampoo, condition to cut down on the static, _then_ soap. It was simple efficiency. And gravity. Only an idiot started washing from the feet up, so that the earliest parts cleaned could end up dirty all over again.

“I believe you,” Bond said seriously. “On your laptop in your pyjamas with your first cup of tea, if I remember correctly. Apparently not before your morning’s shower, however.”

“Oh, god,” Q muttered, propping an arm against the shower so he could hide his face and hopefully suffocate. Bond _remembered_. That whole bloody idiotic speech at the museum, with Q babbling anything that came to mind at the challenge from the older, terrifying alpha-dog agent. One look at Bond, and Q’s pride at being the second-youngest Quartermaster in MI6 history had fallen to pieces, because there was _no possible way_ he’d earned the right to give orders to a field agent like Bond. “You can just let me die now.”

“I’m afraid that’s an unacceptable proposition,” Bond replied evenly. “I’ve become rather attached.”

“It’s kind of you to say so, but I can’t imagine why.” Q swiped the soap at his legs, wanting nothing more than to go back to bed — and all of his thoughts in that way involved wrapping himself around Bond and not letting go for at least six hours, and only then if someone provided coffee. A lot of coffee. Followed by a nice cup of tea.

Finally, he remembered the shampoo. He poured too much into his hand and started scrubbing it into his hair.

“I’m positive I won’t drown unless I put effort into it, and I don’t think I could manage at the moment,” Q said, closing his eyes against the drips of shampoo lather that trailed off his fringe. “This is certainly outside the scope of your position — Oh, god, you’re not wearing an earwig, are you? The last time you showered with someone, I was listening in. Unless you have since. Which I didn’t just ask.”

Bond had the grace not to laugh, though he couldn’t press his smile out of existence. “I’m not wearing an earwig,” he promised. “And I haven’t since,” he added.

“I’m sorry. I meant to be awake earlier, but I had to fix” — he cut off before he could say ‘my owl’s feathers’ — “cabling.”

Bond hummed thoughtfully. “I’m finding it difficult to be anything but pleased at the delay,” he said, repressed laughter barely lending an oddly musical edge to his voice. He opened the door, heedless of the spray bouncing off Q’s shoulders, and leaned in to press a wet kiss to the back of Q’s neck. “Coffee is done whenever you’re ready. I’ll go get your clothes.”

Shivering, Q listened to Bond leave the bathroom, feeling just a bit surprised. The kiss had accomplished what the shower hadn’t: He was wide awake, body tingling with sudden new life. The Bond he knew from comms and surveillance would have stepped into the shower, pushed Q up against the wall, and ravished him senseless before he could even think about being late to the conference. And then Bond would’ve found a way to get there on time anyway, because that was what he did: the impossible.

But this Bond, kind and respectful and considerate... He wasn’t charming Q’s body and sex drive, but something deeper inside, something Q had never expected someone like Bond to touch. A night of cuddling and snogging and laughing at the telly, and gentle hands and a single kiss...

Silently, Q resolved to spend the rest of the day figuring out everything he could about Bond: what he liked, what he disliked, what made him smile that crooked smile, and what could incite him to more strong, caring, careful kisses.

 _After_ coffee.

 

~~~

 

Q snatched futilely at the serviette that the wind tore from his grasp and shouted, “Your picnic is a terrible idea, James!” He managed to keep a stern expression for two seconds before he broke out into laughter at the sly, amused look Bond threw his way. “All right, it’s bloody brilliant, but we’re going to starve like this!”

Bond laughed, eyes flicking from Q’s face to his hair before he turned his attention to the buttons on his door. “Hold on a moment,” he said loudly to be heard over the rush of wild wind through the car. He rolled the front windows up, then rolled the back ones down halfway, then the front ones back to about a quarter of the way down. The change in aerodynamics was wonderfully effective; the wind channelled quietly and smoothly through at the top of the car. It was just enough air movement to rustle their hair, but not enough to disturb the place settings. “Better?”

“You’re a genius,” Q said agreeably, and went back to distributing their takeaway. It was nothing fancy — breakfast croissants, hash browns in paper sleeves, and styrofoam cups of coffee — but the company and the car made it more appealing than whatever fancy catering the manor had.

“Just don’t tell anyone — it might ruin my reputation.” Bond cast another glance over at Q, this time looking at his shoulders. “I’d guess ferret, but the holes in your coat are a little too deep for that, as are the scratches on your shoulder.”

“What?” Q blurted, before he could stop himself. Then he felt himself blushing, and he quickly turned his attention to checking which coffee was black and which had milk and sugar. “I — No. Not a ferret.”

“Do I have competition I don’t know about?” Bond’s smile was amused, not angry, as he looked back at Q. “Did I mention I can cook?”

“Can you cook chicken or fish?” Q asked wryly. “Or mice?”

“Alec tells nothing but lies,” Bond said grimly. “And it was in an African desert where takeaway is hard to come by.”

Q couldn’t help but laugh, and he used the excuse of handing over a breakfast croissant — wrapped carefully in wax paper against drips — to slide his hand over Bond’s leg. “Can you promise not to tell? To keep this secret? No one else knows.”

“As long as it’s not a secret plot to blow up MI6 or any other part of the commonwealth, we should be fine,” Bond said easily.

“I doubt he could manage. Though if anyone like him could...” Q tipped his head, momentarily distracted by the thought of using his owl to plant surveillance devices and handle dead drops.

“Is this where I have to promise not to track him down and threaten him within an inch of his life?” Bond said with a chuckle. “And I’m not just good at pasta or noodles. Full course meals, Q, if I’m properly inspired and have the time.” He turned just long enough to raise his eyebrow at Q, eyes sparkling with repressed laughter — but not jealousy.

Q grinned back and squeezed Bond’s leg before he started arranging his own sandwich. “It’s my sort-of pet. He lives with me, sometimes — which is why the window was open. He’s an owl. If he’s a ‘he’, that is.”

“A pet owl that comes and goes at will?” Bond asked somewhat incredulously. “That’s... unusual.”

“Maybe not quite a pet, but a friend?” Q suggested, knowing that he probably sounded insane for saying it. “He’s absolutely brilliant. And the scratches are accidental. He’s never actually _hurt_ me. If... Well, if you’d like to meet him, perhaps tonight?”

“Absolutely,” Bond said with a smile. “I know a lot about the care and keeping of raptors from my time in Afghanistan. You wouldn’t believe how common it was there for soldiers and locals to have trained falcons. If you have any questions, I can try and answer them.”

Tension unknotted from Q’s chest. Relieved that Bond wasn’t shouting at him for having a wild animal in his flat, possibly with mites or fleas, or that Bond wasn’t threatening to turn him in to the RSPCA, he said, “Feathers. Last night, he got tangled in a blanket. He keeps dropping a blanket on me, I think because someone trained him not to perch on a shoulder without a blanket. Only he must have fallen off the sofa, and when I got him out, his feathers were all...” Q made an indistinct gesture with his hand. “They were all twisted up, and I thought one might have been cracked and bent, but it seemed all right.”

Bond’s eyes narrowed in thought. “If it was just one twisted out of place, it should be fine without any extra help from you. They tend to fall out later if the damage is significant enough, but it will grow back. If the damage is significant, like torn or or cracked shafts, I’ve seen people use glue or a piece of straw like a splint. You can clean it afterwards with Oxyclean. For some reason, that will encourage the bird to pay special attention to that area to preen.”

Straw and glue seemed terribly inefficient — surely the resources of Q Branch could provide better — but the rest he could manage. “Would you mind taking a look? I’m positive he’ll be fine. He’s gorgeous, James — and so clever, it’s almost scary. He... well, you know I’m not in a good neighbourhood. One night, there were these two men, with a knife, and he attacked them both. Drove them off. And then he spent the night in my flat, and never threatened me at all, even when he stole my mobile.”

“Two men threatened you?” Bond asked darkly, his demeanour changing to something much more predatory. “Have you informed Mallory? Have they been taken care of?”

Q huffed. “I’m not going to tell Mallory. They were muggers, not assassins. Besides, I’m not entirely certain they even have eyes anymore. The owl was _terrifying_. It was like something out of a fantasy movie.”

Bond didn’t say anything for a long, tense moment. Then he took a deep breath and looked over at Q. “We’re finding you a new flat when we get back,” he said firmly, reaching out for Q’s hand.

The protectiveness — overprotectiveness — should have felt stifling, but it didn’t. Q smiled and laced their fingers together for a moment. “I need a house, actually. He needs a yard with trees.” Then, with a grin that was meant to be knowing but probably came out shy and awkward, he added, “Maybe somewhere far enough from the city centre that I can convince you to drive out to visit me? This car wasn’t meant to be driven in city traffic, after all.”

“I’d like that,” Bond replied, squeezing his hand. “You know, raptors are incredibly loyal animals to people who have earned their affection, but they don’t become attached easily. I’ll examine the owl’s feathers if it lets me, but don’t be surprised if it doesn’t want to stray far from you or tries to bite me on your behalf.”

“He won’t,” Q said confidently, though he felt a touch of nervousness. What would he do if his owl didn’t like Bond? He shook his head at the thought. He’d find a way, even if he had to buy sushi for Bond to feed to the owl until it was sated and happy and sleepy. So he pulled his hand free, with a last brush of his fingers, and said, “Eat your breakfast. You can’t drive if you’re starving, and you need your strength. If this management conference is horrid, I’ll need you to exfiltrate me from hostile territory.”

“With pleasure,” Bond said with a slight growl. “I’m certain I can come up with an excuse to have you all to myself that will satisfy Mallory. Though I have to confess, paid hotel or not, I’d probably just try to convince you to leave that horrible little town immediately for more welcome environments.”

“What’s so horrible about it? The brochure made it seem... ‘quaint and picturesque’, with a friendly pub and something about an annual flower show?” Q snickered at the thought of Bond at a flower show for a purpose other than a dead drop or trailing a target.

Bond was silent for a minute as he took a bite of his food and chewed thoughtfully. “I’m not sure that I can explain it to you without giving you a long backstory that, frankly, is a topic that would thoroughly spoil our picnic.”

Nothing roused Q’s curiosity more than half-revealed information, but he decided to let it pass until he could do private research at another time. Now, he just smiled and petted Bond’s arm, enjoying the feel of solid muscles under wool, and said, “Breakfast, James. By the time you’re done, at this rate, it’ll be time for lunch.”

Bond reached over and brushed a thumb down the line of Q’s jaw. “Pass a hash brown,” he requested with quiet contentment.

Q turned and dropped a kiss against Bond’s fingers. Then he dug through the takeaway bag to find the hash browns and what remained of the serviettes.

 

~~~

 

The Tadfield Manor Conference and Management Training Centre was a stately old building with a small gravel carpark off the circular drive. The cars there were split equally between the type of nondescript black SUV that screamed ‘armoured and secure’ and family saloons, making Bond’s sleek sportscar look almost comically out of place. Q grinned as he got out, taking the rubbish from their picnic.

“Luggage, or leave it in the car?” he asked curiously. They’d both brought overnight bags, though now that Bond knew about the owl, Q wanted more than anything to get back to London.

“Let’s leave it. If we’re very lucky, we’ll be able to leave early,” Bond said with a wry grin. He shut his car door with a careful slam and stood frowning at the building. After a moment’s stillness, he pulled his sunglasses free from where he’d tucked them into his pocket and put them on. “I wonder if we’ll see anyone I know,” he mused quietly, casting a glance around the grounds and looking thoroughly ambivalent about the idea. “Wouldn’t that be interesting.”

Q leaned into the tiny back cargo area and took his laptop bag out from behind his seat before closing the door. He squinted over at the manor house, thinking it really was lovely. If not for his owl, he definitely wouldn’t mind spending a weekend here. “I hope so. There’s no reason for us both to suffer through the actual conference.” He shrugged the laptop bag onto his shoulder and smiled at Bond, wishing it wouldn’t be unprofessional to take his hand. “If you get bored, feel free to shoot out a window or two. There are enough bodyguards here to provide amusement.”

Bond looked thoughtfully at the windows, then around at the grounds. “I’m not sure there’s an angle for it that wouldn’t have me caught and gunned down almost immediately.” He walked around the car and stood inches from Q. “Don’t worry. I have a tablet. I can always play a game or two while maintaining an expression of productivity.” He held out his hand and gestured to the laptop bag. “Can I carry that for you?”

“You’re a bodyguard, not a valet. Aren’t you supposed to have your hands free to fend off... god, what’s even _here_? Particularly determined cows?” he asked, realising that he genuinely had no idea what sort of wildlife would be in this area. “Do cows even count as wildlife?”

“I’m relatively certain there aren’t any homicidal cows here, though if they would exist anywhere...” Bond raised an eyebrow at Q, then laughed quietly as he took Q’s bag anyway. “You’re more likely to see deer, foxes, wild raptors, that sort of thing. There aren’t many natural wooded areas left, even out here, so they probably wander the grounds freely.”

Q stuck his hands in his pockets before he could give in to the urge to take Bond’s arm. The motion tugged on his torn coat, blowing out a few puffs of fibre stuffing. “I... should probably not walk into the conference in a ripped jacket,” he said, suddenly embarrassed. “God, what on earth makes Mallory think I’m at all suited to presenting at a conference? I hate talking in front of boring crowds. It’s like a school nightmare that just keeps coming back. Book reports and presentations.”

Bond looked over at Q and smiled. “I may have an alternative for the jacket.” He handed Q both the laptop bag and his own portfolio-style tablet case, and went to the boot of the car. He pressed a button on his key fob to pop it open, then leaned in to shuffle around. “I always have at least one set of spare clothes in the back. My shoulders are a bit wider than yours, but...” He straightened and pulled out a folded bit of soft grey fabric. He shook it out to reveal a gorgeous peacoat of expensive-looking wool.

Laughing, Q set the laptop bag and tablet in the boot. “You’re brilliant. Though I’m going to _drown_ in that. Just because we’re nearly the same height doesn’t mean your clothes will actually fit me.” He pulled off his torn coat, stomach giving a little flip at the way Bond was grinning at him, and said wryly, “I assume it’s bespoke?”

“Which is why the cut is slightly asymmetrical to accommodate a holster, I’m afraid,” Bond confessed. He stepped behind Q and held up the peacoat invitingly.

Just as Q feared, when he slipped his arms into the coat, the shoulders drooped and the front could have overlapped as a double-breasted coat with room to spare. He looked down — only the length of the coat was close to proper, and because of the slumped shoulders, the sleeves hung down to his fingertips.

“I am officially ten years old again,” he said with a regretful laugh, looking over at Bond again. “I’m certain it looks much better on you.”

Bond didn’t laugh, but his smile was incandescent. “You are _adorable,_ ” he said fondly just before he leaned in for a kiss.

Q let his eyes close and stepped close, not even caring that anyone looking out from the manor would be able to see them. Brief as the kiss was, he felt it all the way to his toes, and he was positive his smile had gone soft and silly when Bond pulled back and their eyes met again. “Because the head of the technological services branch of the UK’s most clandestine secret service organisation should be ‘adorable’? Not very fearsome, that.”

Bond didn’t lean back right away but turned to nuzzle at Q’s hair with a soft hum before turning to speak quietly in his ear. “I could give you a gun, if you like, to help increase your fearsomeness. That would solve the asymmetrical issue, as well.”

“There’s no need,” Q said, his voice gone strained and breathless. He swallowed and tried to ignore the warmth of Bond’s skin and the way his words had stirred the air over Q’s ear and hair. “I trust you to keep me safe. You’re dangerous enough for us both.”

With one last, light press of lips to Q’s temple, Bond stood back with a smug grin. “That I am,” he said with satisfaction. He made a few adjustments to the coat — flattening the collar, tugging the belt straight, and otherwise making the fit slightly more acceptable — before taking the bags out of the boot. “Shall we, Quartermaster?”

Wondering if spending the night wasn’t a good idea after all, Q nodded, trying to remind himself that he was a professional and that at least some of this was business, not personal. “Thank you, 007,” he said, and headed towards the manor house.

 

~~~

 

 _I am not jealous_ , Q told himself a few hours later as he walked through the garden, heading for the trees. He huddled into Bond’s coat and told himself to be glad it smelled like nothing more than slightly damp wool and the stale air of the car’s boot, rather than Bond’s soap or aftershave or anything at all.

Because he wasn’t jealous. He had no right to be jealous. He was very happy that Bond had found a colleague here — Felix Leiter from the CIA, a well-respected field agent who’d accompanied one of the CIA’s directors. The two of them were still at the hotel’s bar for drinks, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder and laughing about... whatever. It was intimate and close and reminded Q that he _wasn’t_ a field agent.

So he left, skipping out on the tentative invitations to join his own (non-field-agent) colleagues for drinks, and went for a walk. He rather hoped to find some murderous cows as a distraction.

Three texts came in as he walked. Three problems to distract him, though they were easily solved without the need to do more than respond by text and send one single scathing email.

He left the garden and went into the small, well-kept wood, following a leafy trail under the winter-bare trees. Once, he had to step carefully around the evidence that there were horses somewhere nearby.

Of course, this was ridiculous. He was happy that Bond had a friend here, and he was under no illusions that the two of them were in any way _more_ intimate than being just friends. But things happened in the field. Adrenaline and close quarters and all that. Things might have happened between Bond and Leiter. Who was admittedly handsome and charming, with dark skin and bright eyes and a ready smile. And deadly, which most definitely seemed to be Bond’s type — unlike Q, who _wasn’t_ deadly without a computer or explosives or, yes, a gun, as long as it had a decent targeting system, because he was rubbish with fixed sights, and that was without the complication of his glasses.

With an irritated huff at his own bleak thoughts, he stopped and looked back down the twisting forest trail. He couldn’t see the manor house, but he had an excellent sense of direction. He knew precisely where he was and had no fear of getting lost. But the quiet and solitude were doing nothing for his mood. Obviously he wasn’t the type of person to find peace with nature.

Before he could turn back, the soft-yet-sharp cracking of sticks and leaves just up the trail stopped him in his tracks. Q froze, keeping eyes focused on where the sound was coming from. Suddenly, he regretted not taking Bond up on the offer of a weapon, because this was a conference of bloody intelligence professionals. Target-rich environment.

Everything went quiet. Stayed quiet, long enough that he wondered if he’d imagined it. The mind conjured ghosts to fill the silence, he knew. He’d certainly heard enough of that sort of thing down in the Q Branch tunnels, late at night, when the ventilation system cycled off.

Then a series of hard thumps against the ground echoed through the forest. Remembering the evidence of horses, Q realised it wasn’t the sound of a person running down the trail. It was too lithe, not disturbing the underbrush as it ran, and too fast. Visions of being trampled filled his head, and he crashed off the bridle path, pressing himself up against a tree, staring around in what he thought was the direction of the oncoming horse.

Or _not_ -horse. Moments later, a deer stopped in the middle of a dead run to stand mere metres from Q, staring at him.

Not a _just_ a deer. A stag. With antlers. Sharp, pointed, _deadly_ antlers.

Conflicting urges hit Q at once. He wanted to run, but he knew running could incite an aggressive dog to attack. Did that apply to deer? What if he’d stumbled on its breeding grounds or near its fawns? Besides, running would do no good — not with how _fast_ it could probably go, leaping gracefully over obstacles while Q blundered into trees and brush.

Hiding was pointless, because it was staring right at him, but could deer see ahead of themselves? Wasn’t there something about a deer’s vision and how the shape of a its skull let it see attacks from the sides and even behind?

And _what the fuck was with the wildlife these days?_ First an owl saved him from being mugged or worse, and now he was being stalked by a _deer_?

Moving very tentatively, he took the mobile from his pocket. Then he froze. What was he going to do? Text Bond for help against a potentially lethal deer? He’d be laughed out of MI6 once the story got out. And Bond would think it a transparent attempt to lure him away from his friend (or more-than friend).

The deer, for its part, was just as frozen as Q. Except for occasional flicks of its ears and tail, it held utterly still, staring. Finally, when Q took his mobile out, the deer dragged its left hoof over the flat trail. Then it bowed its head and made a huffing noise before prancing back several steps, like a confused bull getting ready to charge.

“Right. I’m not after your, er, mate or girlfriend or... doe,” he said, finally remembering the word for female deer. A tiny corner of his mind was telling himself that it was one thing to talk to an owl that had apparently been trained and raised by humans, and talking to a deer was entirely something else, but he couldn’t help it. Apparently the MI6 classes on hostage negotiation had stuck with him.

He took a tentative step backwards, away from the deer and towards the manor house. “So you go back that way, and I’ll go back this way, and we’ll be fine.”

With another bit of prancing, hooves tearing up the dirt under its feet, the deer moved a little to the left, but not any further away. It shook its head, antlers flashing menacingly, but didn’t run away.

It was mirroring Q’s own moves.

“This has now crossed into officially _creepy_ ,” Q muttered, remaining where he was. Had someone — some _enemy_ — trained wildlife in some impossibly thorough way? Oh god, had he left his flat window open to admit a bird trained to... to steal memory sticks and papers in hopes of finding anything classified? He didn’t have anything classified at home, but still. The very thought was horrifying.

And a little galling that _he_ hadn’t thought of it first.

Because really, as good as the Double O’s were at killing, assassination-by-deer would be written off as a bizarre anomaly. If this stag decided to gore Q with its antlers, everyone at MI6 would grimace (or laugh) at the circumstances of Q’s painful, brutal death, and then move on without a single suspicious thought.

Why hadn’t he let Bond give him a gun?

When Q didn’t move, the deer slowly approached him, paused just inches away, and then moved past him — towards the manor. It didn’t look back at Q, but kept turning and bowing its head to the trail. When it was nearly three metres past, it finally turned back, ears and tail flicking, to stare at Q.

“Well, isn’t this very... _Disney_ ,” Q muttered. He had the distinct, ridiculous impression that the stag thought he was in need of rescue. He swallowed, wondering if the stag and the owl were both hallucinations, though that didn’t explain his scratches or ripped jacket. Unless he’d done it to himself. He might have. After all, he was a genius. Wasn’t the madness of genius supposed to be extraordinary in some way? Perhaps he’d created these mental fictions — wildlife — due to an overabundance of tech in his life.

A hallucinated stag was safer than one trained as an assassin and _probably_ safer than a wild animal that wanted him to follow it. Deciding that insanity was probably the best course of action, he started after the stag.

“If you’re real, I think I’d like some evidence of that. Though any ‘evidence’ you could provide would naturally be suspect, if my own sense of reality has been compromised in some way, so that doesn’t help at all.”

It was a relief when the deer didn’t seem to acknowledge him in any way; it just kept its slow, steady advance on the path towards the manor. It wasn’t having the easiest time of it, though, as its majestic but somewhat impractical antlers kept getting caught in the branches and underbrush to either side of the trail. At one point it seemed to lose its temper — did deer _have_ tempers? — and rose on its hind legs to kick at an offensive low-hanging branch. Only once the branch was satisfactorily crushed into the frozen ground did it start forward again.

“So, why are we getting me out of the forest?” Q asked absurdly as he stepped over the fragmented branch. “Is this what you do? Find stray guests of the manor and lead them back to safety? Because I wasn’t lost, you know. I have an excellent sense of direction — not to mention a bloody GPS on my mobile.”

At that, the deer _did_ stop, turning to crane its head back at Q. It stared at him with what Q might have imagined was annoyance — and who knew deer could narrow their eyes? Then it started moving forward again. It didn’t attack any more branches, but did get caught up, one final time, on a thorny wild rose bush before emerging at the edge of manor grounds.

As Q passed the rose bush, he found a tuft of brown- and cream-coloured hair caught in some of the thorns where the stag had walked past. He took the fur without thinking of what he’d do with it. It was soft and smooth and felt perfectly real in his hands, but so did his owl’s feathers. He could show the fur to Bond, but... then what? Bond would point out, and rightly so, that finding a bit of fur caught on brush in the forest was entirely normal.

Perhaps Q just needed a holiday.

If his owl wasn’t real, he could just stay here. The room was booked for the weekend, after all, and he could take the train back to London. Of course, if his owl _was_ real, and he stayed away for two nights in a row, it might decide he wasn’t coming back.

He took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, thinking that insanity, if this actually was insanity, should by all rights be less vexing and more _entertaining_. Gorgeous as the stag was — and it really was, with its graceful way of moving and its deadly antlers and soft brown eyes — it was just a deer that had bullied Q into going back to the resort where his not-boyfriend had all but forgotten him in favour of someone else.

“Happy now? You have your forest to yourself,” he said sharply.

Apparently it was. It huffed and pawed at the ground and shook its head in an impressive display of raw wild power. Then it took off, running parallel to the trees for the length of the manor garden before disappearing back into the forest.

Wonderful. Exiled _and_ ignored by a deer. He looked at the bit of fur in his hand, stuck it in the pocket of his coat — _Bond’s coat_ — and dragged himself across the garden.

 

~~~

 

Q sat in a corner of the resort’s quiet restaurant, picking at a bizarre salmon dish with a bit too much in the way of style and not enough flavour. He was alone, laptop open, attention focused entirely on getting through the backlog of emails that hit every time he was out of the office for more than two hours. He’d ordered without thinking, and he might have enjoyed the dinner more if every bite of the flaky fish didn’t have him wondering if his owl would like it as much as it had liked tinned tuna.

“You too, Felix. I’d say give your little girl a hug from me, but I think we both know that would be disingenuous,” came Bond’s voice from the end of the aisle. Q looked up to see him clap the CIA agent’s shoulder once before his eyes found Q almost immediately. Bond’s smile widened as he made his way towards Q, dodging waiters and other diners as he went, leaving Felix to head across the room to the table where Q recognised the CIA officer and two people from the DGSE.

Q would have looked down at his laptop again, but he didn’t have it in him to be rude. So he gave Bond a slightly forced smile and said, “I’m sorry. I would have waited, but I thought you had other plans.” Then, not wanting to sound jealous, he quickly added, “For dinner.”

Bond lifted his arm to glance at his watch. “Sorry, I didn’t realize we’d stayed at the bar for so long. I had planned on meeting you when you got out of your presentation, but it’s been a few years.” He smiled at Q, eyes sparkling as he took in the coat on the nearby chair. “Went for a walk?”

“Briefly,” Q said, refusing to think about the deer. He looked around for a waiter — the staff here seemed somewhat distracted and inattentive. “Have you had dinner? You’re welcome to join me, if you don’t — if you want,” he corrected.

Bond’s expression turned curious, though the smile didn’t leave his face. He sat in the chair next to Q, rather than across from him, and unbuttoned his suit jacket. “Did you read my case files from the mission in Montenegro in ‘06 and LaPaz in ‘08? Leiter saved my arse both times.”

 _Twice_ , Q thought, giving another vaguely sincere smile. That just increased the chances that _something_ had happened between them. Not that he had any right to jealousy. “I’m glad you came with me, then. It must be nice to see him. The CIA doesn’t often come to London openly.”

“He and his wife just had a baby girl. I think he’s trying to take some of the less dangerous assignments now.” Bond smiled and reached out to brush his thumb over the top of Q’s hand. “Would you like me to introduce you?”

Q knew that he should say yes, but now he just felt guilty _and_ embarrassed at what he’d been thinking. Bond seduced people as naturally as he breathed, so the assumption of intimacy between him and Leiter was entirely logical — but still unforgivable. Thankfully it was Friday, so he could have Bond drive him back to his flat and hide under the blanket with his maybe-imaginary owl for the entire weekend, and hopefully everything would be better by Monday.

He shook his head and said something that must have been proper, because Bond didn’t react. A waiter finally came by, and as he took Bond’s order, Q broke another bit off his fish, mashing his fork into it before he scooped it up. This wasn’t normal for him. He wasn’t emotional like this. He didn’t get attached to people — or to imaginary animals, for that matter.

Maybe it was the shock of the almost-mugging. Only five days had passed. This could all be some sort of post-traumatic crash. He put down the fork in favour of taking a sip of white wine, thinking that a weekend of rest was definitely in order. Things would look better on Monday.

“I may stay here for the weekend,” he said, remembering only then to close his laptop. It was unconscionably rude to have a guest at the table and keep working. And putting the laptop away let him avoid meeting Bond’s eyes. “I could use a bit of a break, and if I’m not in the city, Mallory can’t call me in for a crisis.”

“Oh.” Bond’s expression darkened fractionally, though he didn’t stop the gentle caresses to Q’s hand. “I don’t suppose there is any chance I can talk you into coming home with me for the weekend instead? Mallory wouldn’t know you were there at all, and I assure you, my food and drink offering will be an improvement over what they offer here.”

“I’m not certain I’d be very good company,” Q admitted. “I think... perhaps what happened Monday night was a bit more disturbing than I’d first thought.” He zipped the laptop bag closed and sat up somewhat reluctantly, looking at his plate rather than Bond’s eyes.

“Q,” Bond said gently. He straightened from his lean in the chair to reach forward for Q’s chin. He tipped it with a gentle press of his hand so he could meet Q’s eyes. “I’d much rather be with you when you’re feeling upset than leave you alone, as long as you want me there.” He let go with a slight brush of his thumb at Q’s jaw. “You don’t need to be good company for me.”

Hesitantly, Q said, “Given my condition this morning, I —” He laughed a little and picked up his glass as he nodded. “You’re very tolerant. Yes. Or we can stay here, if you’d like. Or go to my flat,” he added, before thinking that bringing up the owl again might not be wise. If nothing else, he could write off his talk this morning as pre-coffee dreaming.

Bond nodded in relief. “Thank you. I would really not rather stay here, if that’s all right. Your flat or mine? Yours, if you want me to meet your friend.”

Q winced. “Well, yes. If — We could try. It didn’t come the other night, though. Why don’t you want to stay here? It’s very quiet. Or is that why?”

“I’ll tell you all about it sometime, but this isn’t the best time or place,” Bond replied, looking around the room. “Besides, even the charming hotels here don’t have afghans and animated movies, or convenient microwaves for popcorn.”

The memory of Bond, deadly assassin, cuddled up beside Q under a blanket watching Pixar’s latest offering made Q grin despite everything. He put down his glass and said, “The pub in town probably does takeaway we could get for the drive home. Chips, if nothing else.”

“Your operations planning never fails to delight, Quartermaster,” Bond said with an answering grin. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

“I’ll settle the bill, if you’ll bring the car around,” Q suggested, sweeping up the laptop bag and jacket as he stood.

Bond nodded and stood, still smiling. “I’ll meet you outside.”

 

~~~

 

“I’m sorry,” Bond said as he pulled into the motorway services carpark. The building before them was a shabby attempt at colourful and modern that even a light dusting of snow couldn’t fully repair. He steered over towards the petrol station. “Where shall we take our chances? EDC, Burger King, or Costa?”

“I’ve never heard of a pub that doesn’t at least offer chips in a takeaway bag,” Q complained, though he smiled at Bond. “Why don’t I pop in and see which is least offending? Is there anything you would prefer not to eat?”

Bond shrugged, eyes on the obnoxiously colourful sign next to the entrance. “If it drips, I may protest,” he said wryly, with a lazy brush at his suit trousers.

“Bag of crisps from the vending machine.” Q leaned over the centre console to kiss Bond’s cheek, and then ducked out of the car to the sound of Bond’s laughter.

It was freezing outside; after the cosy warmth of the car — complete with heated seats — the fresh air felt bracing. Ducking snugly down into Bond’s coat, Q jogged across the pavement, moving between pools of light to get to the doors.

Motorway services was one of those unpleasant necessities that Q was glad to never have to face in London proper. There was something disturbing about food coming from _on_ a motorway, as if the petrol fumes could somehow permeate a perfectly acceptable burger.

Who was he kidding? Just the thought made him realise it was not only possible but actually could be weaponised. A light vapour carrying particles of a specially tailored tasteless poison to lightly coat food delivered into a refrigerated kitchen, introduced into the ventilation system...

Somewhat distracted, he sniffed the air to check his options. Burger King was definitely out, and the coffee shop looked deserted, so he reluctantly went to find sandwiches at the EDC, only to find it was already locked for the night. He looked back at the Burger King, debated for another silent moment, and finally settled on crisps. That would tide them over until they were back in civilisation.

It was strange that Bond hadn’t wanted to stay the night at Tadfield Manor. Despite the spotty restaurant service, it had been pretty enough, especially since it had once apparently been a hospital left over from the war. Of course, as a management training centre with a government contract, Bond might well have been sent there at some point.

The thought of Bond attending, say, a ‘Proper Workplace Behaviour’ class was enough to make Q snicker as he retrieved his purchases — two bags of crisps and a bottle of water — from the machine. Worse, he probably would’ve been sent with his cohort, Alec Trevelyan.

He was still grinning at thought of the chaos those two would’ve caused when he went back out into the cold darkness. They were going back to Q’s flat coming from the west, which meant that they could probably stop off at the new Italian place Q had been meaning to try. That naturally brought to mind the famous spaghetti scene from _Lady and the Tramp_ , and he laughed to himself.

A squeal, metal-on-metal, cut into his thoughts. His heart skipped as he looked around and saw an articulated lorry spinning out of control, two of its tyres shredded into scraps of steel-belted rubber. Thoughts of the truck hitting the pumps filled Q’s mind. He looked for Bond, drawing breath to shout for him to run, only to hear a loud crash as the lorry slammed into a flatbed of construction materials. The flatbed spun from its parking spot, driverless and out of control. The force of the impact crushed the bed enough that the retaining straps came loose, sending steel pipes flying.

Panic hit. Q dropped everything and turned to run on instinct, but it was too late. The steel pipes came at him like a deadly, glittering rain, giant bullets sprayed from the back of the flatbed, scattered in an arc that caught Q in its midst. He tried to duck, but he was already falling, air punched from his lungs, making him try to gasp before the darkness —


	6. Chapter 6

**Friday, 18 January 2013**

This wasn’t quite right.

Q couldn’t exactly tell what was wrong, yet, but the moment that consciousness started to creep back, the _wrongness_ thrummed through his blood and behind his closed eyes.

There were voices, Q realised. One was speaking, low and quick, in a language Q didn’t immediately recognize. The words were harsh and guttural and reminded Q of Russian, though it seemed more primal and coarse than the Russian he’d heard before.

The answering voice came from just beside Q’s ear. The language was the same, but this time, Q recognized the voice. It was Bond.

Q took a deep breath, and when the air rushed through his lungs, he felt the _wrongness_ start to dissipate. It irrationally felt like he hadn’t been breathing at all for hours, and the sensation of the returning oxygen was dizzying. Something around him tightened. He was in Bond’s arms. One of Bond’s hands was pressed over his heart, and his fingers twitched when Q took his second breath.

The first voice stopped talking, and there was silence for a long moment until Bond broke it with a low, rough voice. “Q?”

Slowly, with each breath, awareness started to seep back into Q’s mind and body. He was wet and cold. He was on Bond’s lap. Bond’s arms were tight around him; Q could feel a slight but constant tremble run through them. And when Q finally managed to open his eyes, he discovered that he was in a car. Bond’s car. With Alec driving.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Alec said grimly. He looked over at Q, gaze assessing, for several moments before he turned his eyes back to the road.

Q closed his eyes and rested his head awkwardly against Bond’s shoulder. “Report,” he said instinctively, though it came out more like a croak than his usual smooth, controlled tone.

“There was an accident,” Bond said quietly, relief obvious in his rough tone. “I got you out. Called Alec for support. He’s taking us back to London.”

Q nodded. The words, on their own, made sense. An accident. Bond would call Alec. It wasn’t always safe to call emergency services — not if the accident was in the least bit questionable. Q himself had arranged to replace ambulance personnel with MI6’s people specifically to create an accident and then smuggle someone away. It was an excellent way to capture or rescue a target.

Ducking his head to keep from banging it on the low roof of the sportscar, he lifted his hand to cover Bond’s. He wanted to ask if he was all right, but his chest was ominously heavy, which seemed explanation enough. They were probably going to Medical at MI6, where the staff could be trusted.

But... no, were they? They were an hour outside of London, maybe two. The conference at Tadfield Manor.

Q’s next breath hurt less, which was a relief. He opened his eyes, but all he could see were Bond’s silhouette in the darkness and the faint glow of the dashboard against Alec’s skin. He lifted his arm to reach for the overhead lights, but the ache flared up into bright, sharp pain, making him flinch.

“Easy,” Bond said, reaching up to thread Q’s fingers through his own. He pulled Q’s arm gently back down and cradled it where their chests were pressed together. “You’re going to be fine, but your muscles might need some time.” Bond drew in a rough breath and turned his head to the right. “Light, please, Alec?”

Alec moved his hand from the shift lever to the dome light. “Just relax, both of you,” he advised, lowering his hand as soft light filled the compartment.

Nervously, Q looked down at himself.

Then his heart slammed into his ribs and he gasped, because there was _so much blood_. It was everywhere, as if someone had been decapitated in his lap. His skin cringed back from it, and he realised he was covered with sticky, tacky blood. He hadn’t been aware of it only because the heater was running full blast.

“Oh, fuck. Shit. Shit,” he said, panic rising, choking him. He lifted his head, thinking that they should go back and help whoever it was that had been wounded practically on top of him — if not actually _killed_ , because no one could lose this much blood and live.

With unusually slow, ginger movements, Bond brought his free hand up to Q’s hair. He ran his fingers through the tangled, sticky mess a few times before tugging so he could rest his forehead on Q’s. “Breathe, Q. It’s fine. You’re okay. I’m okay. No one is dead.” Bond’s breath was warm on Q’s face and reassuringly slow and steady. He kept his hand in Q’s hair, slowly petting. “We’re okay.”

Q’s relaxation was only momentary, before he realised his hair was sticky and wet — not just snow-wet, though. His breath hitched, and he reached up, feeling for any wounds, and when he bowed his head to search the back of his skull, he saw his once-neat button-down shirt, now rust brown from blood —

 _Torn_.

“James.” It came out as a whisper, because the tear was dead in the centre of his chest, as if something — _a pipe_ , his memory supplied — had cut through.

He dropped his hand to claw at his shirt, too panicked to realise what he was doing until Bond’s arms circled him and Alec’s hand reached out to grab his, and together they managed to stop him, but not before he’d torn two buttons and ripped open his shirt. The skin beneath was crusted with blood, slathered with it in a sticky layer.

Impossibly, it was also unbroken.

“You’re fine,” Bond said again in a soothing, if tight, voice. “You almost... I almost didn’t...” he shifted in his seat and pulled Q close again. His breath grew ragged as it sped up, and he tipped his face away from Q’s. “You’re fine,” he repeated in almost a whisper.

Q took deep breaths, rubbing his hand over his chest. “What happened? _How?_ ” he asked in disbelief.

“James?” Alec asked softly.

Bond’s breathing didn’t slow, and it took Q few a minutes to realize that it wasn’t fear that was causing James’ reaction - it sounded like pain.

“I’m just...” Bond ground out. “Give me a minute. Residuals are catching up again. Fucking energy transfers.” He let his head fall back against the seat and said something else in that guttural language Q still couldn’t identify.

Q’s mind sorted through all logical possibilities, but... well, there were _no_ logical possibilities. Energy transfers? Residuals? Bond wasn’t from some primitive, tech-foreign culture that would look at, say, a defibrillator as a device for ‘energy transfer’. So what the hell was going on?

He could _almost_ believe that he hadn’t been hurt — that the blood on his clothes belonged to some other poor bastard, and that his shirt had been torn by a miraculous near-miss — but the likelihood was almost none.

“Pull over,” he said quietly.

“We’ll be home in London soon,” Alec said.

“Pull over.” This time, it was an order.

“It’s after dark,” Bond pointed out quietly, voice still raspy. “And neither of us are up for the challenge of fighting anyone off.”

“Pull over!” Q barked, breath coming quicker again. “Now, 006.”

Alec shot Bond a look before he signalled to change lanes, steering the sleek little sportscar off the motorway. “Q —”

“Don’t,” Q interrupted, twisting around. He tried not to elbow Bond in the face as he scrabbled for the door handle.

“Please,” Bond huffed out. “Just wait for me. I’ll follow when I can, but just wait a minute.”

“Stay. I’m not — I just need —” Q said, pushing the door open. He all but fell out, legs tangling in the blood-wet folds of wool that had once been Bond’s gorgeous, too-large peacoat. He made a point of staying in the triangle of warmth and light between the door and the car body as he tore off the coat.

Bond sat up, though he didn’t get out of the car. He just watched quietly, breathing heavily, as Q ripped off the coat and held it up to the light, examining it for damage.

The front was torn in two places — the lapel on the left side, right at the fold, and the right sleeve.

The back had a hole that would’ve done admirably well as the exit hole for a 9mm. Maybe a .45, Q thought distantly as he put his fingers through it and spread the shredded fabric.

Very, very quietly, he said, “James.”

Bond took a deep breath. “It was a pipe. It pierced your rib cage and your lung and shattered your shoulderblade. I healed you. The organs and bones and muscles are newly regrown, so don’t aggravate them.” He stared down at the ground. “You’re fine.”

Delusional owl or not, there was no possible way Q could rationalise _‘I healed you’_ to mean plasters and CPR. He nodded, feeling the sort of calm settle over him that came during the height of a tough mission, when he needed to focus only on the immediate needs of his field agents. He stuck his hand in the wet pocket of the coat and pulled out the clump of bloody fur.

“Is this real? Do you see this?” he asked, his voice as steady and rational as if he’d been asking for a cup of tea.

“Yes,” Bond said tiredly. “Fur from a stag.”

Q felt himself starting to shake — the cold, the stress, the impossible reality. Even, if Bond was to be believed, the fatal loss of blood. He got himself turned around so he could sit on the threshold of the doorway, cramped as it was, rather than on the ground.

Distantly, he heard Alec say, “No, stay,” followed by the car rocking as the other door opened and closed. He heard the solenoid _thunk_ of the boot opening, and then closing a few seconds later. Alec walked around the car, and only then did Q notice that Alec was wearing a light, short-sleeved linen shirt.

“You...” Q said, staring at Alec’s suntanned face. “You’re in Bermuda. You’re on a mission in Bermuda.”

“I am. Or I was, until James called me.” Gently, Alec took the peacoat away and held out Q’s own parka, complete with its torn shoulder. “Put this on, Q. You need to stay warm. Put this on and get back in the car.”

Automatically, Q obeyed, because it made sense. It was freezing. _He_ was freezing, now that he was out of the warm car and the warmer circle of Bond’s arms. He let Alec take away the peacoat, though he held onto the bit of stag fur, and he let Alec help him back into the car, onto Bond’s lap. The seat was pushed back and reclined as far as possible, but it was still cramped. He tried to fit himself against Bond’s body as best he could, and when Bond’s arms went back around him, he buried his face against Bond’s hair.

“I’m sorry,” Q said as Alec closed the door, because somehow, Bond’s condition — his unusual silence and stillness — was because of _him_.

“Don’t be,” Bond said quietly. “Of all the ways I thought you might be in danger...” he shook his head and gave a low, rough laugh. “A pipe. An _accident_. At motorway services.” His arms tightened protectively.

Q burrowed against Bond’s body, trying not to think about how much blood there was on him. He wanted to tear off his clothes and wash, but they were in the middle of nowhere. They certainly couldn’t go to a hotel — not with Q looking like the young victim of two slightly incompetent serial killers.

He tried not to think about it, and instead asked, “The fur?”

“That town isn’t safe, and the woods even less so. The bloody antichrist likes to...” Bond shook his head. “Nevermind.” He turned to watch Alec get back in the driver’s seat.

 _Antichrist_ , Q thought, wondering when Bond had suddenly become religious — and in a fire-and-brimstone sort of way. At least, no _rational_ church mentioned the antichrist. Did they? Q really didn’t know much about religion at all, beyond what he’d picked up through movies and video games.

Realising his mind was wandering, he thought about the fur again, and then he shook his head. “It’s — I saw —” he tried, before realising nothing he said would make any sense. “Am I... all right?”

“It was me. I led you out of the woods,” Bond said, voice sinking even further into exhaustion. The trembling in his arms had returned, but at least he didn’t sound like he was in pain anymore. “You’re fine.”

“It was you? It wasn’t _you_. It was a stag. A great big bloody stag, with antlers,” Q said, hearing the growing note of hysteria in his voice, though he couldn’t seem to stop it. God, what was _wrong_ with him? He could talk an agent through defusing a dirty bomb in the heart of Paris, but he couldn’t handle seeing a deer in the woods? What was next? Catatonia brought on by pigeons in Trafalgar Square?

“It was the fastest way to get to you and to not provoke attention. They know my face, and even though they can’t actually do anything to me personally, I still wasn’t willing to provoke them. Bloody narrow-minded arses.”

“A stag,” Q repeated, because Bond didn’t seem to be understanding. Q was talking about a _deer_ , not _him_. “And attention? Attention from _whom_?”

“A stag,” Bond repeated. “Not meant for these woods, really. Kept getting tangled in the damn brush.” He sighed. “Attention from the antichrist and his self-righteous cronies. Well, they’re not _all_ so bad. A few of them I actually like. We’ve fed the ducks on occasion, had some good times over drinks...”

It was contagious. Whatever _it_ was, it was contagious. “Alec —”

“James _is_ the stag,” Alec interrupted. “There are _things_ that live in Lower Tadfield that would object to him being there, so he became a stag to get you out of the woods.”

“Of course,” Q said dryly, wondering why they were _both_ taking the piss. Was this their irritating (and offensive) way of dealing with trauma? Did they expect _him_ to have some sort of cracked sense of humour about this all?

He could have _died_.

Or he _had_ died.

Or...

“Is there any force on this earth that could convince you to let me explain once I’ve regained my equilibrium?” Bond asked, moving one of his hands from Q’s waist to rub slow circles over his back. “I’m not trying to hide anything, but I’m not at my best. Healing you took a lot out of me.”

Q nodded, guilt twisting inside him at how selfish he was being. He had... _Something_ had happened, and Bond had done... _something else_ , and neither of them was in any condition for anything at all.

He suddenly wished he’d never got out of bed this morning. At least his warm bed and the protective presence of his owl made sense. And now he needed another shower.

“We’re never going to have a normal shower, are we?” he asked, entirely forgetting Alec’s presence until the words were out.

Alec laughed.

“If you come to mine, I have an excellent bathtub,” Bond said, tone much lighter than it had been only moments ago. “Could fit four, but I’d rather it was just the two of us.”

Q couldn’t help but look over at Alec. “This is _incredibly_ awkward —”

“Oh, no,” Alec said. “You’re _his_. And if you recall, Quartermaster, I’m supposed to be breaking-and-entering tonight. In about three hours.”

Mortified, Q buried his face against Bond’s hair. “I wasn’t even _hinting_ at that,” he muttered. “What about my” — he hesitated, because Alec didn’t know about the owl, but decided that Bond would end up telling Alec everything anyway — “my owl?”

“Your owl?” Alec asked sharply. “Fuck, James, why not just drag down the Northern Lights and write it in the sky for him?”

“He almost got murdered by muggers, Alec,” Bond defended, stopping the massaging of Q’s back to once again start petting his hair. “And after, it was... nice. Don’t pretend you don’t understand.”

 _I don’t have to pretend_ , Q thought, but he finally remembered to keep his mouth shut. Perhaps if he let the two of them talk, he’d actually get _answers_ instead of more cryptic hints.

“I wouldn’t. I don’t blame you at all. Good choice. At least you know he can keep secrets.”

Bond huffed. “True. He didn’t even want to tell _me_. I think we’re safe with him. I forgot what it was like to just relax and lean into someone’s warmth.”

“I don’t suppose you like dogs, Q?” Alec asked. “Big ones that look like they might be wolves but who absolutely wouldn’t... you know... eat you.”

“I could never have a dog. I never had the time. It wouldn’t be fair,” Q said. He wasn’t entirely following the nuances, but he understood enough to know that Bond _liked_ him. Despite him being insane or confused or hallucinating. Or despite all of them being that way.

“Can I borrow him?” Alec asked.

“What do you think, Q? Would you like to have Alec over?” Bond asked. “ _Just_ to pet. Maybe use as a footrest.” He shot an amused look at Alec.

 _Surreal_ , Q thought, but gave a little nod. Maybe once this all passed, he’d learn that Alec _had_ a dog, as opposed to how he was implying that he _was_ one. “Of course. I like dogs.”

“And me,” Alec added. “And don’t tell me he doesn’t, James. He gives me guns. Well, he gives you guns, too. And 009, and no one actually likes 009. But me, he likes. I’m very likeable.”

“Twin Gods of Chaos,” Q said with a huff. “The two of you. When I took over Q Branch, there was a memo about you two specifically.”

“You have no idea,” Bond said with a laugh. “Though you’re starting to find out.” He sighed and tucked his face into Q’s neck. “You’re fine,” he whispered almost inaudibly.

Q nodded, sliding one hand over Bond’s shoulder. It was as close to an embrace as he could get in the cramped confines of the sportscar. “Is my owl real?” he asked plaintively. If Bond said no, he wasn’t certain he could stand the heartbreak. And after not even a week. How had he got so attached to it?

“Q,” Bond said, body language going tight around Q as if he were bracing himself. “I’m your owl.”

He very nearly said something stupid, like _‘but you’re a stag’_ , but he caught himself just in time. If Bond could be a stag and Alec could be a dog — or a wolf, which he’d implied — then obviously Bond could be an owl, too.

So he stayed silent for a moment, waiting for the little voice of sanity in the back of his mind to object, but apparently that voice had gone elsewhere. Finally he nodded and said, “I’m sorry if I hurt your feathers.”

Bond stiffened for a second, then started laughing. “You didn’t,” he said with deep, honest amusement. “Thank you for straightening my feathers. And sharing your dinners. And letting me fall asleep on your shoulder.” The laughter didn’t immediately abate, but quieted into chuckles.

“You fell off my sofa,” Q said, lifting his head to look at Bond. “You had a fight with my blanket and fell off my sofa.”

Alec barked out a laugh, though he turned it into a choked cough when Bond glared. “Sorry. Cold air after being in Bermuda. Dries the throat.”

“I was tired,” Bond protested. “And cold because of the bloody window.”

“Next time, you can damned well _close_ it. I’m going to have to pay for that sodden carpet, you know,” Q insisted.

“Shifting isn’t exactly comfortable, and I would have been entirely naked. At the time it was just easier to...” Bond sighed.

“Congratulations, but I’m offended, you arse,” Alec interrupted.

Bond looked at Alec, brows raised. “Offended? What did I do now?”

“Got married and didn’t invite me. Bastard. Listen to the two of you, like an old married couple.”

“Shifting. _Shapeshifting_ ,” Q blurted out, sitting up so suddenly that he smacked his head against the roof of the car, and then into the glass window when he flinched back.

“Q,” Bond chastised. The hand he’d had tangled in Q’s hair moved to rub at the spots Q had knocked into the roof and window. “I don’t have anything left to heal you at the moment, so do try to avoid a concussion, please.”

“Heal. As in _heal_. You’re —” And he stopped, staring at Bond in the soft light from the roof of the car. “You — _Both_ of you... But _what_?”

“We’ve been downgraded from _who_ to _what_ already, Alec,” Bond said, though he leaned in to brush his lips along Q’s jaw as if to prove he wasn’t offended.

“You’ll be downgraded to _where_ if I exile you both to Siberia for not answering my bloody questions,” Q complained without any particular heat. He snuggled back down against Bond’s chest, wishing the bucket seat weren’t so bloody cramped. He was tempted to sink down into the footwell so he could rest properly, but even he couldn’t fold up quite that small.

“So, speaking as an ancient god from not too far away from Siberia, that’s fine,” Alec said casually. “Besides, I have fur. Lovely, warm fur.”

Bond turned to glare at Alec. “Subtle, Alec.”

“I do! It’s not my bloody fault you can’t even fit through a doorway when you put on your fur,” he retorted with a snicker.

“Ancient god,” Q said.

“Oh, it was worse when buildings had curtains instead of doors,” Alec continued, shooting a grin at Bond and Q. “Antler-face there got tangled every bloody time.”

“I don’t know. Those beaded curtains in the sixties were pretty horrendous,” Bond added. “And don’t call me that unless you want me to strategically point out how a dog cleans itself...”

“At least I —”

“Enough!” Q snapped, though any force behind it was lost to his attempts at not giggling madly. Finally, his insanity was properly entertaining. “Alec, can you get us to James’ flat before you’re supposed to break into the Department of Health in Bermuda?”

“Yes,” Alec said sulkily. “And I’m a wolf, not a dog. Not _quite_ a dog. I was around before dogs, thanks so much.”

“Even worse, because you’re old enough to know better,” Bond huffed. But he settled back against the seat again and closed his eyes. “He’ll drop us off, park the car, and pop back quick as you like without raising any alarms.”

Q let out a sigh and eased back down into Bond’s arms. “If you’re really gods, why can’t you ever actually fill out your paperwork properly? The memo specifically said to watch out for your shortcuts.”

“Gods don’t do paperwork,” Alec said airily.

“Gods bloody well do in _my_ department.”

“Learning to speak a language isn’t nearly as difficult to write it,” Bond said, though his voice was muffled from where he’d leaned back into Q’s neck again. “And languages keep bloody _changing_.”

“I _streamlined_ the forms. Little checkboxes. Click with the mouse. And don’t tell me you can’t click a mouse, because I’ve seen the two of you playing _Diablo III_. On _my_ servers. Who’d you get to install it? TJ?” Q huffed into Bond’s hair.

“He believes us,” Alec said. “You. Q. Not TJ. You believe us.”

“Is he making sense?” Q asked Bond.

“You’re not threatening to section us,” Bond replied. “It’s not very often that someone accepts this, even with evidence. You wouldn’t believe how many times someone has tried to burn us at the stake, both metaphorically and literally. Not the best way to thank us for saving lives, but no one ever accused the human race of being sensible.”

“Sectioning you would _guarantee_ that your paperwork didn’t get done,” Q said dryly.

“What I mean,” Alec interrupted, “is that you _believe_ us. I can feel it.”

At that, Bond straightened a little, shifting Q as he stiffened in the seat. “I can’t,” he said almost breathlessly, staring at Alec. “But the resurrection... Alec, you’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. I’m better with people than you are.”

“Your arrogance is charming,” Q muttered.

“Confidence. Not arrogance. Besides, I’m a bloody _adorable_ wolf. You’ll see. I’d show you now, but it’s difficult to drive with paws.” Then he laughed. “Remember that time I tried?”

But Bond had apparently stopped paying attention to Alec. His attention had focused on Q with a certain intensity that Q hadn’t experienced yet — eyes focused and sharp, body completely still, as if he were using every sense to listen. Even his hands, which had been roving over some part of Q or another during the entire trip, rested unmoving on his body.

“You believe us? You believe _in_ us?”

Q shrugged, resisting the urge to hide his face against Bond’s neck. He clutched the deer’s fur — _Bond’s_ fur — tightly in his hand. “It’s that or I’ve gone mad, and that’s a much less appealing choice. Was I really” — he couldn’t keep from cringing — “resurrected?”

Bond nodded. “I told you, I’m rather attached,” he said quietly, staring at Q with that same intensity.

“Thank you,” Q said softly, and gave in to the urge, burying his face against Bond’s hair.

Bond’s arms came back around Q, caging him in a tight hold, and he shifted just enough to press another kiss to Q’s temple. “You’re welcome.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Friday, 18 January 2013**

Q’s first impression of Bond’s flat was that it would be glorious in the daytime. It occupied the entire upper floor of a remodelled warehouse and was accessed by a cargo lift that led to a tiny hallway with a single entry door. The exterior walls were barely more than brick supports between huge windows glowing over plants _everywhere_ , turning the flat into a forest of gorgeous greenery. Ivy wound up wooden frames circling the columns supporting the high ceiling and hung in curtains from the joists overhead. There were flowers Q couldn’t identify and twisted, gorgeous bonsai trees and pots of thick grasses and even carpets of moss hanging over the sides of flowerpots. The furniture was almost lost under the greenery — a sofa barely visible behind a table covered with planters, a bed half-hidden behind a screen wound with roses, a kitchen screened by trailing spider plants.

There were no interior walls. Q walked with Bond, both of them helping each other to balance, to a set of screens and glass brick hiding a bathroom area with a waterfall-style stone sink, a tiny closet that had to hold the toilet, a huge shower with multiple showerheads, and the sort of bathtub that doubled as a spa.

“I should shower first,” Q said regretfully, staring at the bathtub. He wanted to undress, but he didn’t want to let go of Bond.

“No, you shouldn’t,” Bond insisted. “We’ll soak it all away, then rinse when we’re done.”

“Gruesome,” Q said, but he couldn’t be arsed to care that much. He shrugged out of his torn parka, thinking that this relationship was going to be positively awful for coats.

Then he snorted, and the snort became a snicker, which became a laugh, and soon he was sitting on the floor against the base of the waterfall sink, laughing so hard that he had to take off his glasses and rub at his tearing eyes at the _absurdity_ of it all.

“Oh, good,” Bond said with obvious relief as he watched Q. Then, one hand clutching the sink so as not to fall over, he started to strip. “I’ve seen it all — every possible reaction to stress and shock that it’s humanly possible to have.” He threw his clothes carelessly to the floor as he yanked them off, and soon was kneeling, naked, in front of Q. Then he gently started tugging at Q’s clothes. “I have to say, laughter is my favourite. Especially yours.”

“We’re even,” Q said, trying to help Bond, though all he managed was to get in his way. “I _liked_ this parka.”

Bond hummed as he systematically attacked and removed Q’s clothes, though he wasn’t quite as capable of using his strength to move Q as he normally would have been. The shirt, belt, and socks were all easy enough to shed, but it turned out to be practically impossible to remove his trousers and pants while he was still on the floor.

“I give up,” Bond said wearily, waving at the remaining clothes. “You deal with those while I get the water running.” He stood shakily and turned to the tub.

The sight of Bond — strong and powerful and _unkillable_ , at least if the rumours at MI6 were to be believed — barely able to stand was enough to snap Q out of his own mad daze. He scrambled to his feet and got an arm around Bond’s waist, saying, “If you pass out, you might want to do it as an owl. You’re much more portable like that.”

Then he failed to bite back another little laugh at the thought.

“Much easier to clean human skin,” Bond muttered as he pulled the button for the stopper and started the water running. He looked around for a few minutes, saying something about flannels and soap, before he apparently decided to give up. He crawled into the tub before it was even an inch full and laid back against the side, eyes closed. Then he cracked an eye open at Q. “Coming?”

Q followed, hopping from foot to foot to get rid of his trousers and pants. He probably should have been self-conscious, but all he wanted was to crawl back into Bond’s lap and soak in the hot water for the next week.

“Why me?” he asked once he was settled next to Bond, curled up against his side, legs intertwined.

Bond reached out to tug Q as close to his own body as physically possible. One hand dragged up and down Q’s spine, knuckles lightly knocking the vertebrae as they went. The other rested on Q’s neck, fingertips pressed to the pulse point. “I like you,” he said.

“But you’re a god,” Q said, bracing for a sense of disbelief that never came. He curled up even closer, resting his head against Bond’s collarbone to feel him breathe. “You could have anyone. Someone... Someone beautiful, someone who actually has a life outside the office, someone interesting.”

“ _You_ are beautiful, Q,” Bond protested. “And interesting. Brilliant, too. Why should I care how much time you spend in or outside the office? It isn’t nights out on the town that I want from you.”

Feeling his blush return, Q was glad he was already hiding his face. “What do you want, then?” he asked, thinking about how little Bond had actually seemed to expect from him. Whether as an owl or a man, he hadn’t made any demands beyond companionship and closeness. No, not even demands. Q was more than happy to be in Bond’s arms or to have him, as an owl, resting on one shoulder or perched by his bed.

“This,” Bond said with quiet contentment. He drew up his knees, taking Q’s legs with him, so together they were in a cosy little ball along the side of the tub. “Touch. Feeling. Physical sensation.” He held tighter and nuzzled at the nape of Q’s neck. “You are utterly addictive. And lovely. And I could listen to you talk and feel your body for hours. Days. Longer.”

If this had felt any less perfect, Q would have died on the spot of embarrassment. As it was, his skin came alive, little shocks of lightning crawling down his spine and through his bones and everywhere Bond’s breath and skin touched. Q tried to get impossibly closer and made more than one incoherent noise of pleasure before he finally found his voice. “Do you — You don’t have to — But you _do_ , don’t you? I’ve heard while monitoring your comms.”

“I do. But sex is so fleeting, comparatively speaking.” Bond’s hand moved down Q’s spine until it rested at the small of his back. “I forget sometimes, though — how long it’s been, that sort of thing. We’ll have to work on that.”

“It’s fine. I like this, too,” Q said honestly. “I mean, I wouldn’t argue if you wanted more, but this is nice.” He shifted a bit more as the water level rose, and he looked down to see blood swirling around them, turned pale pink. “Was I really dead?” he asked very quietly.

“Yes,” Bond answered quietly. “I couldn’t... You weren’t... Don’t do that again.”

“I’d definitely rather not,” Q said, trying to hide his shiver at the chill that crept up his spine. “Thank you for bringing me back.”

“You’re welcome.” Bond leaned back against the tub again, cradling Q in his arms. “I’m going to be drained for a while though. If you need anything, best tell me now. I suspect once we fall into bed, we won’t be leaving it for a few days.”

Somewhat anxiously, Q asked, “We? You want me to stay?”

“You don’t have to,” Bond said quickly and quietly. “You’re under no obligation to me for anything, Q.”

“I _want_ to.” Q leaned back just enough to meet Bond’s eyes. “And... well, it’s not as if we haven’t shared a bed. You’ll shed less feathers like this, too,” he added, grinning.

“A valid point,” Bond said with a small smile. “Though I feel like I should warn you — I’m something of an addict. I will fully take advantage of petting you if you’re sprawled out next to me.”

Q didn’t answer until he was curled up against Bond’s chest once more, face safely hidden. The water was finally a few inches deep, and the lingering chill was slowly leaving Q’s body. “Given how much I’ve petted you, I think it’s only fair that you return the favour,” he hinted.

Bond laughed. “And I _do_ have so much catching up to do.” But he pulled his hand free from Q’s hair to reach for water, cupping some in his hand to let it fall through his fingers and onto Q’s head. When Q tried to look down at the water as it ran through his hair, Bond gently tipped his hand back up. “Don’t look,” he said quietly.

With a little grimace, Q closed his eyes, trying not to think of just how much blood he’d lost tonight. But now, he was fine. Nothing hurt at all. He was warm and safe and with his...

“What are you?” he asked, before realising how rude that sounded. “To me. Us. That is, what are we? To each other?”

“It won’t be much of a comfort to hear, but I’ve never actually been able to answer that question,” Bond said with a shrug. “Who or what, I don’t really know. Neither does Alec. We sort of woke up one day, and here we were. But we get stronger when people believe in us, which is why Alec could sense your belief. As for what we are to each other...” Bond shrugged. “We can be whatever you want. From occasional bits of _this_ , to staying with me all the time until you don’t want me to hold back your age, it’s up to you.”

Q swallowed, eyes opening to stare at the water swirling around them. “I... I meant...” He took a breath, feeling suddenly dizzy, and closed his eyes again. “Hold back — You’d want me?”

“Yes.” Bond scooped up another handful of water and let it fall through Q’s hair again. “But don’t feel obligated to say anything. You don’t need to declare your intent. You can stay or not, and change your mind at any point. And as many times as you like. You just have to tell me if you want me to stop or restart your ageing process.”

“I _was_ going to ask if we were officially dating,” Q said with a faint laugh. “I like you. I... could probably more-than-like you. As long as you stop perching on my bloody monitors.” He turned to kiss Bond’s collarbone. “And I would very much like to stay with you. If you recall, in fact, I was willing to _buy a house_ for you.”

Bond hummed and closed his eyes, slipping a little deeper into the tub. “Like I said, no need for declarations. We can just _exist_ together, however you want.” Though his hold on Q didn’t ease, Bond’s body slowly relaxed against the tub wall, and Q glanced up to see his eyes were still closed.

 _A god or something_ , Q thought, resting his cheek against Bond’s shoulder. It should have been ridiculous — the delusional product of a near-miss accident — but... he knew. He’d _always_ known that there was something special about Bond and Alec.

“That’s why you always come back,” he said softly, without lifting his head. Bond’s skin felt so real, warm and alive, but Q could _almost_ imagine feathers or fur. “From the field. Missions. Even when you were shot off the train bridge.”

“Yes. Not that it’s something I particularly enjoy.” Q could hear the grimace in his voice. “The getting shot off a train, falling that far and being unable to change? That _hurt_. It took me awhile to come back from that.”

“Unable to change?” Q asked as he tried to get even closer. A part of him wished they were cuddling on the sofa or even in bed so he could hold Bond in his arms, but the bath was warm and comfortable, and Q _really_ did want to be clean.

“Completely,” Bond confirmed as he scooped another handful of water onto Q’s hair. Then he gave up the action to pull Q tight to his chest. “If I had changed into the owl, the wound wouldn’t have shifted to change size. You can imagine how unpleasant that would be. And the stag took too much energy. I just had to stay there and wait in the river. Water has a lot of energy, but it doesn’t share as freely as land, and I couldn’t get to the shore.”

A hundred questions came to mind at once — questions about energy and matter and science and physics and even, perhaps for the first time since Q had been five and asked his father about death, theology. He pushed them all aside, however reluctantly, to instead lift his head enough to kiss Bond’s jaw. “Thank you for coming back,” he said quietly. “For not just... staying out of the country. Or giving up on us all and just flying away.”

“Alec and I have always been warriors,” Bond said with a shrug. “And you’re worth coming back to.” With a sigh, he freed one of his arms from where it was wrapped around Q’s chest and reached to pull the shampoo free from its place in a basket on the corner of the tub. “I do miss swords, though.”

“Swords? Brutal, hacking —” Q started, before his words faltered and he groaned under the wonderful, _living_ sensation of Bond’s fingers rubbing shampoo into his hair. He sat forward just enough for Bond to get at all the strands. “I’ll make you one,” he offered.

“Something tells me you don’t have the metalsmithing skills necessary to make the sort of swords I’m used to. In fact, I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m having a hard time picturing anything but a large, sleek version of a Swiss army knife,” Bond said with a low chuckle. His fingers worked slowly and methodically through Q’s hair in motions that were half meticulous, half massage.

“Composite materials. Ultra-light. Nanotechnology for an impossibly sharp edge. Won’t be caught by airport metal detectors. Can I pet you?”

Bond’s fingers stopped for a moment, and he tipped Q’s head up, careful to keep the soap from his eyes, to meet his gaze. He smiled broadly at whatever he saw, and laughed. “Absolutely. Let me finish your hair first.”

There was no physical way to consciously repress a blush, but Q tried anyway. “I didn’t — I’ve never been near a deer before. A stag. And now that I know you weren’t, I don’t know, upset that I was near your girlfriend...”

Bond laughed again as he finished with Q’s hair. “Maybe in a few days. The energy transfer was very hard on me. A few days in bed and then we’ll find a nice private forest. I’m actually strong enough for you to ride me if you like.”

Q froze, no longer thinking of the stag in any way at all.

Bond paused again while rinsing Q’s hair, then continued after a deep breath. “Ah. That, too, would be an excellent way to pass the time.”

It took some effort for Q to concentrate on speaking instead of drowning himself from embarrassment. “I’ll — Yes. I meant — Sorry. You really don’t...” He shook his head, pulled up his legs, and dropped his forehead onto his knees. “It’s hard _not_ to think of that, like this, you know. Sharing a bath, I mean. And you’re still _you_ , even if you’re also my owl.”

Bond’s laugh was low and delighted. “That I am.” He dumped one last handful of water in Q’s hair to rinse the last of the soap away, then actually lifted Q and turned him to settle on Bond’s lap. He tucked Q’s legs around his waist and pulled to hold him close to his chest. “And there are benefits to sleeping with a god, if we like you enough. Which, obviously, I do,” he said mischievously.

“It feels... I don’t know. Greedy, perhaps. Me wanting you.” Q slicked back his hair with one hand. Then, with a sudden laugh, he thumped the back of his hand against Bond’s chest. “And _that’s_ for always losing half the equipment I assign you. You’d imagine a god could keep track of a poor, innocent laptop.”

“You know how you feel about pencils and pens? Useful tools that you pick up and put down and lose track of with alarming frequency? That’s how I feel about most equipment. Shiny and useful, but ridiculously transient.” Bond shifted Q one more time so he was more comfortably arranged over Bond, then slid his hands up Q’s sides in a slow, caressing motion. “But if it makes you happy, I can try to do a better job of keeping track.”

Q leaned in, unable to resist the temptation to steal a kiss, before saying, “From now on, I’ll make everything special, only for you.” Then he laughed and added, “And for Alec, too. Would you like that?”

Bond leaned in to press a kiss to Q’s temple. “I would be honoured and delighted,” he said quietly, moving his hands from Q’s sides to his back, repeating the same slow motions. “I’ve never had the sole attention of a genius on me before. Well, me and Alec. But he doesn’t count, really,” he added with a laugh. “You’re in _my_ bathtub, after all.”

“Well, it would be nice to have a dog. Fetch the paper, if we ever needed anything in print form,” Q said, grinning. “We could teach him tricks. Sit, roll over, shoot the target instead of blowing up the whole bloody embassy. Little things.”

Bond laughed again, keeping the sound trapped in his throat as he continued his caresses on Q’s face and neck. “If you keep your promise to pet him while he’s in animal form, he’ll do just about anything for you. We crave human contact, and Alec hasn’t had anyone close in centuries.”

The thought of such loneliness made Q flinch. He _liked_ Alec — he genuinely did, even if Alec and Bond together generated at least sixty per cent of Q’s entire paperwork load. “He came when you needed him. When _we_ needed him,” he corrected. “I don’t... It doesn’t seem fair, choosing you over him, but I might not... _this_ , he can...”

“I’m not sharing _this_ ,” Bond said firmly, nipping at Q’s ear. “But your friendly affections, you’re free to share if you like. Don’t feel too bad for him — it’s his choice. When we choose to become attached to someone, losing them is... beyond difficult.” Bond shifted beneath Q, body language betraying his discomfort. “And though we can stop the ageing process and heal you, something always happens eventually. Alec has given it up for a while to heal after his last companion.”

Q’s instinct was to pull back, to tell Bond that it wasn’t worth eventually hurting like that. That _Q_ wasn’t worth that sort of pain. He couldn’t, though — not when it was obvious even to him that Bond wanted this. “Can we shower? And... maybe lie in bed for a bit? Or on the sofa? I don’t want you uncomfortable.”

Bond nodded, but didn’t move just yet. He pushed Q’s hair out of his face and left his hand at the base of his neck to pull him forward into a kiss. This time, he kissed with his whole body, pulling Q against him from waist to chest, moving slowly as if savouring every point of contact. Q shivered at the intimacy, torn between disbelief that 007 wanted him and the far more impossible thought that a _god_ wanted him. A week ago, he would have said both were impossibilities, far out of his reach. The reality, though, was far more important than thoughts of getting out of the dirty bathtub and into the shower and then into bed, so he concentrated on nothing but showing Bond just how special — how _incredible_ — this was, to him.

When the kiss ended, Bond leaned back just enough to look into Q’s eyes. Q knew that his expression was a bit dazed, but he didn’t care. He had nothing to hide, no reason to be embarrassed.

“I want to stay with you,” Q said softly.

“I would like that,” Bond replied just as softly. “Even if I can’t promise much more than quiet and rest for the next few days.”

“Can I do anything to help? I’m very good at ordering takeaway and opening tins,” Q offered.

Bond looked at the water with an abashed expression on his face. “Help me up?” he asked. “Then we can shower and go to bed.”

Reluctantly, Q moved away from Bond and got to his feet. “I’m sorry,” he said, holding out his hands. “I wouldn’t mind just curling up with you and sleeping for the rest of the weekend. Though I _will_ need to eat, eventually — or at least get tea.” He braced himself as Bond took hold of his wrists, and together, they got Bond standing. Q took the opportunity to steal a hug, thinking that it really didn’t matter _what_ Bond was — human or god, man or owl or stag. Bond was _his_ , and now, he always would be.

“Let’s just be sure to grab the phone on our way to bed,” Bond said as he reached down to pull the lever to release the stopper. Then he and Q helped each other to the huge shower, where Bond turned on the hot water from every one of the showerheads, filling the cubicle with a warm rainstorm. Q didn’t hesitate to get in, but when he tried to look down at the water running over his body, Bond tipped his chin up again. “Don’t look,” he repeated softly. “We’ll get takeaway delivered. And tea. They won’t bring it right to the bed, but it’s a short walk to the front door.” He picked up the body wash from the basket and started rubbing it over Q’s back.

“We can call Alec,” Q muttered, leaning against Bond’s chest, toes curling with bliss at the gentle, caring touch. “They’ll be so impressed with a wolf that fetches tea and takeaway that they might even forget to charge us.”

“You really want Alec to have his mouth all over our takeaway and then sleeping at our feet in bed? I may be tired but I did have _some_ ideas about how to pass the time when we’re not sleeping.” Bond moved his hands to Q’s chest and dragged them suggestively down, though they landed on his hips rather than anywhere more sensitive.

“He’s on a mission. He can sleep on our feet when he’s done.” Q tipped his head back into the spray, meeting Bond’s eyes curiously. “Is he something else as well? If you’re a stag and an owl...”

“Raven. He’s a wolf and a raven,” Bond said with a yawn. He tucked his chin on Q’s shoulder while he rubbed the soap over Q’s arms, neck, chest, and waist. “Don’t ask me about the trickster god legends, though. At least, not until I’m awake enough to give those stories the attention to detail that they deserve.”

“Later,” Q promised, and turned to rinse off the blood and soap. He glanced down and saw that the water was running almost entirely clean. “Tonight, I’m all yours.”

 

~~~

 

**Sunday, 17 February 2013**

In a month, Q learned that one god wasn’t actually very difficult to manage at all. Managing two was only slightly more challenging... most of the time. Unfortunately, two gods tended to overshadow everything in the room, including the latest movie with Jeremy Renner, Gemma Arterton, and lots of leather.

“Antlers, James,” Q warned, putting up a hand to avoid losing another pair of glasses to a quick swing of the stag’s head. This meant he had to stop petting the wolf sprawled belly-up across his lap, and Alec felt perfectly justified in whining and pawing at Q’s wrist with sharp claws.

The stag huffed and stomped his hooves, but didn’t swing his head anymore. He nudged at Q’s hand in the popcorn bowl, then tossed his head up, causing Q’s hand to land over the widest part of his snout.

Who knew that a stag _really_ liked being petted?

“Well, come down here where I can reach. You’re bigger than a bloody horse,” Q said with a laugh. He prodded at Bond’s muzzle until the long, delicately thin legs folded. Huffing out an irritated breath, Bond lowered himself to the throw rug in front of the telly, beside the oversized beanbag chair that Q had insisted on buying to accommodate ‘all those bloody legs you two have’, as he’d put it. It worked much better than the sofa.

Alec rolled over, put his head down on Q’s leg, and belly-crawled forward, nosing insistently at his other hand. Q smirked and threw his arm around Bond’s broad neck, right above his withers, and scratched down Alec’s spine.

Wolves, as it turned out, could wag their tails and snuggle just as well as domesticated dogs.

With a surprising lack of grace, Bond flopped onto his side, leaning heavily against both the beanbag and Q, and let his head loll back. The antler caught Alec’s muzzle, and Bond took advantage of Alec’s scramble away to let his head flop into Q’s lap.

Q rolled his eyes and rubbed vigorously at Bond’s muzzle until he snuffled, eyes squeezing shut. “Play nice, children,” he scolded, leaning over to very, very carefully manoeuvre between the antlers to kiss Bond’s forehead. He patted his thigh to call the wolf back, and Alec let out a pathetic answering whine.

Bond cocked his head when he heard Alec’s claws again and cracked an eye open to watch the wolf’s approach. When Alec flopped against Q’s thigh, Bond tossed his head again. Alec rolled just in time to avoid another face full of antler. Bond huffed and kicked his legs out, and Q had the distinct impression that he was laughing.

Q took hold of one conveniently large ear and tugged sharply enough to get Bond’s attention. “You’re best mates and have been for thousands of years, and if you don’t start acting like it, I’m going to decorate your antlers with tinsel and bells, come Christmas-time,” he threatened.

Bond rolled back up to rest on his legs folded underneath him. His soft brown eyes met Q’s and held them, even as he lowered his head to rest on Q’s knee. Q leaned down with him and kissed his muzzle, wary of Bond’s habit of licking when in stag form.

Alec let out a bark as though amused and trotted back over to lean heavily against Q’s side, tongue lolling. Q felt a sudden well of affection for both of them — his twin gods of chaos — but he hid it and warned Alec, “Two words. Poodle. Cut.”

Q had never before seen a wolf flinch. It was bloody adorable.

Bond huffed and carefully shook his antlers, obviously laughing again. Then he met Alec’s eyes and, after some form of unspoken communication, they both raised their heads at the same time. In one quick and unstoppable motion, they both licked up the sides of Q’s face.

With a yelp, Q grabbed at them, but he only caught a double-handful of fur before they were both gone in a flurry of beating wings and feathers. The owl and raven launched up with twin screeches, deafeningly loud in the concrete-floored flat, to perch just out of reach on one of the ivy-covered beams. Q leaned back on the beanbag, scrubbing at his face, and glared upside-down at them. “You have to come down eventually, and by then, I’ll worked out how to dye a god’s fur _pink_!” he threatened, though he could barely get the words out between laughs.

Then the owl swooped down and, with a flutter of outstretched wings, landed perfectly on Q’s shoulder. In a now familiar action, he stepped sideways until he was pressed firmly against Q’s face and neck, and nipped gently at his ear in apology.

“Ridiculous bird,” Q said, scratching gently at Bond’s feathers. “I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> And there's arts!
> 
> ["You're right, Bond. This is really comfortable."](http://adreaminglamb.tumblr.com/post/50826638228/youre-right-bond-this-is-really)  
> By adreamlinglamb.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Old Gods 'Verse Bond](https://archiveofourown.org/works/810207) by [homosociallyyours](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosociallyyours/pseuds/homosociallyyours)
  * [Old Gods, New Tricks Cover](https://archiveofourown.org/works/811497) by [consultingpiskies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingpiskies/pseuds/consultingpiskies)
  * [Old Gods, New Tricks Cover Art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/817609) by [Skylocked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylocked/pseuds/Skylocked)
  * [Twin Gods of Chaos](https://archiveofourown.org/works/874226) by [peter_pan_dyke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peter_pan_dyke/pseuds/peter_pan_dyke)
  * [Night Run](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12704874) by [Zephyrfox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zephyrfox/pseuds/Zephyrfox)




End file.
